MEISTER  KARL'S 


SKETCH-BOOK. 


BY 

CHAELES  G.  LELAND. 


"I  truly  hold  it  for  an  honour  and  praise  to  be  called  and  reputed  a  Ion  Gaultier 
and  a  Robin  Goodfellow ;  for  under  this  name  am  I  welcome  in  all  choice  companies  of 
Pantagruelists." — RABELAIS. 


PHILADELPHIA: 
PARRY    &    MCM  I  L  L  A  N, 

SUCCESSORS   TO  A.  HART,  LATB  CAREY  ft  HART. 

1855. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1855,  by 

PARRY  &  McMILLAX, 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  tho  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the  Eastern 
District  of  Pennsylvania. 


STEREOTYPED  BY   L.   JOHNSON  AND   CO. 
PHILADELPHIA. 


Printed  by  T    K  &  P.  G,  Collins. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

PREFACE 9 

INTRODUCTION 11 

I. — Of  those  who  Travel  without  knowing  how 15 

II. — How  Ladies  are  always  Borrowing  Pens  and  Ink 29 

III. — In  Honour  of  Ladies 22 

IV. — Of  my  Travelling  Companion,  Wolf  Short 25 

V. — A  Lecture  on  Likes  and  Dislikes 30 

VI.— The  Little  Prophet  of  Boemischbroda 38 

VII. — The  Gasthaus  in  Frankfort-on-the-Main 52 

yill.— A  Masked  Ball  in  Heidelberg 58 

IX. — The  Sadness  of  Koine  and  of  other  Cities 66 

X. — Ferrara  and  Venice 70 

XL — Venice 76 

XII. — The  Crucifix  of  Santa  Maria  delle  Grazie 81 

XIII. — Alternations 85 

XIV.— Nuremberg 91 

XV. — Of  Uncle  Bill  Dumble 105 

XVI. — Reminiscences  of  the  Olden  Time 115 

XVII.— The  Valets-de-Place  in  Munich 123 

XVIII. — Window  Love 13G 

XIX.— A  Musical  Duel 143 

XX.— The  Lago  d'Agnano 148 

XXL— Spring 154 

XXII.— Rome 164 


8  CONTENTS. 

PACK 

XXIII.— The  Carnival 176 

XXIV.— Legends  of  Flemish  Art 184 

XXV. — Our  Diligence. and  Aries 221 

XXVI.— Lectures  to  the  Ladies 236 

XXVII. — Humming  and  Whistling 247 

XXVIII. — A  Story  which  ends  as  it  ought.., 250 

XXIX. — Refrains 256 

XXX.— Yankee  Stories 259 

XXXL— Ghost-Land 266 

XXXII.— Past   and  Present 274 

XXXIIL— Short's    Philosophy 288    4) 

XXXIV.— Contes  des  Comtesses 300 

XXXV.— A  Wreath  of  Ballads 317 

XXXVI.— Finale....  ..  334 


PREFACE. 


THE  reader  may  have  observed  that  in  recalling  expe 
riences  of  life  or  literature  we  seldom  follow  a  regular 
plan.  Our  memories  of  individuals,  as  of  cities  or  of  books, 
change  with  the  phases  of  events ;  so  that  that  which  once 
attracted  may  seem  at  another  time  dark  and  repulsive. 
But,  with  whatever  feelings  we  regard  the  past,  it  is  not 
less  certain  that  much  invariably  recurs  as  half-forgotten 
or  greatly  changed  which  was  once  clearly  retained. 
Facts  will  seem  like  fancies,  realities  like  dreams,  and 
eccentric  trifles  will  often  remain  when  things  of  real  value 
have  slipped  into  oblivion. 

Examination  also  convinces  us  that  our  daily  trains  of 
thought,  if  not  of  conversation,  are  not  less  irregular  and 
fantastic,  and  that  life  itself  is  infinitely  more  grotesque 
than  we  are  wont  to  imagine.  An  accurate  record  of  the 
sleeping  and  waking  thoughts  of  the  soberest  merchant  in 
the  city  would  probably  astound,  by  its  eccentricity,  even 
a  Hoffman. 

In  Meister  Karl's  "  Sketch-Book,' '  the  Author  will  be 
found  to  have  followed  at  ease  the  current  of  his  thoughts, 
without  making  the  slightest  effort  to  restrain  their  course, 
or  to  turn  it  in  any  preconceived  direction.  When  a 
grotesque  or  even  an  absurd  fancy  has  struck  him,  he 
has  recorded  it  without  hesitation,  and  given  it  life  in 
print  without  an  effort  at  correction  or  revision.  He  has 
not  attempted  to  extract  either  from  experience  or  read 
ing  merely  that  which  he  regarded  as  striking  or  pecu 
liar,  but  has  written  down,  as  they  occurred  to  him, 
matters  great  and  small,  sensible  or  nonsensical,  definite 
or  indefinite.  And  as  the  work  throughout  smacks  more 
of  translation,  extract,  and  quotation,  than  of  original 
thought,  the  reader  may  possibly  excuse  the  following 


10  I-AEFACE. 

citation  from  the  preface  of  an  "  Odd  Volume"  written 
many  years  ago,  as  it  not  inaptly  illustrates  the  character 
of  the  following  chapters  : — 

"  In  rummaging  over  a  house,  a  room,  or  even  an  old 
desk  which  has  stood  some  dozen  or  twenty  years  in 
his  study,  who  has  not  noticed  how  many  out-of-the-way 
articles  present  themselves  ?  Shells,  minerals,  pictures, 
seals,  penknives,  trinkets,  strange  and  curious  produc 
tions  from  abroad,  and  convenient  contrivances  which 
come  into  use  once  in  seven  years — all  are  stowed 
away  carefully  in  the  old  pigeon-holes  and  drawers,  and 
present  a  grotesque  but  not  a  useless  or  uninstructive 
medley  when  paraded  on  the  table  for  inspection. 

u  Every  one  who  has  read  to  any  extent  has  at  least 
one  apartment  in  the  great  storehouse  of  memory  which 
is  furnished  with  a  medley  of  a  similar  character — a  col 
lection  of  the  odds  and  ends  of  knowledge — gathered 
from  all  quarters,  and  connected  and  compacted  by  asso 
ciations  the  most  fanciful  or  even  whimsical.  Out  of  this 
apartment  of  our  memory  we  have  drawn  the  materials 
of  the  present  volume,  and  offer  them  to  our  readers,  in  . 
the  hope  that  they  may  not  merely  serve  the  purpose 
of  amusement  for  an  idle  hour,  but  may  furnish  instruc 
tion  touching  interesting  topics  of  life,  society,  and  man 
ners,  both  at  home  and  abroad." 

Meister  Karl  trusts  that  he  is  not  one  of  those  writers 
who  allude  complacently  to  the  early  age  at  which  their 
works  were  written,  since  he  has  never  been  able  to 
understand  why  a  precocious  production  should  have  the 
slightest  advantage  over  those  of  mature  years.  But  as 
every  stage  of  life  has  its  unavoidable  and  characteristic 
defects,  he  would  mention  that  the  greater  portion  of  the 
"  Sketch-Book"  was  written  at  intervals  from  his  six 
teenth  to  his  twenty-fifth  year.  Much  which  is  excusable 
in  the  familiar  sketches  of  a  youth  passed  in  universities 
and  travel  would  sound  strangely  if  supposed  to  be  written 
by  an  older  man. 


THE 


INTRODUCTION. 

"  COMME  mon  dessein  n'a  ete  dans  mes  voyages  que  de  remarquer  ce  quo  je 
trouverois  de  plus  bizarre,  de  plus  merveilleux  et  de  plus  surprenant ;  vous  ne 
devez  attendre  de  moi  que  des  choses  surprenantes,  merveilleuses  et  bizarres. 
Imaginez  done  pour  cela,  que  je  n'ay  voyage  que  dans  des  pais  de  prodiges, 
puisque  je  ne  vous  apprendrai  que  ce  que  j'ai  reinarque  de  prodigieux.  Comme 
vous  etes  de  mes  amis,  je  vous  ecrirai  aussi  familierement  que  j$  vous  parle, 
je  veuxdire,  sans  ceremonies,  etsans  facons, — Vous  lesrecevrez  successivement 
les  unes  apres  les  autres,  sans  que  je  vous  fasse  beaucoup  attendre." — Mital,  on 
Aventures  Incroyables,  et  toute-fois  et  cetera  :  Paris,  ce  30  Mars,  1708. 

WELL,  my  friends ! — are  we  all  in  our  places  ?  Is  the  last 
packet  thrown  in  ? —  are  your  hats  tied  up  ? — your  travelling 
caps  on  ? — coat  and  gown  settled  down  ?  Is  the  baggage  snugly 
stowed  away  ? — have  the  trunks  gone  to  sleep  in  loving  unison 
with  the  band-boxes  upon  the  carpet  bags  ?  Major,  is  your  flask 
within  reach  ? — you  may  wish  to  refer  to  it.  And  are  they  all 
there,  the  gentle  ones,  including  the  pretty  waiting-maid  outside  ? 
(Are  you  comfortable,  ma'mselle  ?)  And  lo,  here  am  I,  your 
courier,  your  friend,  your  guide  that  is  to  be,  with  my  everlasting 
green  bag,  portfolio,  and  pipe.  What's  all  that  row  with  the 
horses  ?  Lay  on  the  leather,  driver  !  all  right, — dem  that  beg 
gar  ! — go  a-head  ! — hey  up  there  ! — g'lang ! 
"  Clic  clac,  petit  postillion !" 

Click  clack,  little  postillion ! 

Before  thee  lies  the  way; 
And  thou  art  like  an  eagle  fleet 

Upon  thy  gallant  grey ! 

Ladies  and  gentlemen  !  I  modestly  set  myself  forward  as  your 
courier  or  valet-de-place,  for  a  long  journey.  Like  many  other 

2  ll 


12  SKETCH-BOOK    OF    ME,    MEISTER    KARL. 

couriers,  I  stall  make  you  travel  pretty  much  where  I  please ; 
«H-like  them,  I  shall  impose  upon  you  as  little  as  possible.  Com 
mon  couriers  make  you  travel  by  land  and  water;  I  shall  take 
you  under  ground,  if  I  choose;  slap  through  the  misty  land 
of  gnomes,  and  sometimes  through  the  gold-glancing  Aerial, 
where  the  pure  dwellers  are ;  sometimes  you  shall  be  among  the 
steam  and  whiz  and  dash  of  the  busy  Nineteenth  century  ;  and 
sometimes  the  quaint  old  spires,  and  distant  towers,  which  rise 
darkly  against  the  Evening  Blue ;  and  the  dream-like  shadows 
flitting  around  shall  awaken  the  consciousness  that  our  journey  is 
not  of  this  world  or  age. 

Nay,  may  I  be  forsworn,  if  the  jaunt  shall  have  any  limit  of 
any  sort  or  time.  All  the  dramatic  or  itineraric  unities  shall  be 
disregarded ;  blown  away ;  sent  to  the  devil ;  in  pocoy  dismissed ; 
and  all  for  your  sakes,  0  dearly  beloved  ! 

Softly  and  kindly,  like  the  voices  of  loved  ones  passed  away, 
come  the  recollections  of  scenes  in  beautiful  distant  lands,  to  the 
soul  of  the  traveller.  Merrily  and  wildly,  like  the  ringing  of 
fairy  bells  heard  at  eve  over  the  darkening  plain,  doth  Fantasie 
awaken  the  chimes  of  his  spirit,  when  he  thinks  of  the  pranks 
played  in  youth  in  many  a  quaint  old  city  o'er  the  sea. 

But  ah  !  gentler  than  all,  how  softly,  how  strangely,  how  won 
derfully,  do  those  unborn  ghosts,  those  embryo  thoughts,  the  feel 
ings,  pass  in  sad  and  beautiful  procession  before  the  gate  of  the 
soul !  Messengers  from  the  Unknown,  whence  come  ye,  or 
whither  do  ye  flee  ?  Time  hath  not  known  ye,  and  ye  dwell  not 
in  space.  The  world  esteems  ye  not;  only  to  the  poet  who  has 
never"  written,  to  the  artist  who  never  creates,  are  ye  welcome 
visitants  : 

"I  stood  upon  a  lofty  place, 

And  look'd  out  on  the  plain, 
And  there  I  saw  a  lovely  face 
I  never  saw  again  !" 

My  dearest ! — every  one  who  travels,  whether  he  be  "  My 
Lord/'  with  his  own  carriage;  a  commercial  agent,  with  his 
samples;  a  student  with  knapsack;  a  travelling  journeyman 
mechanic,  with  ditto,  and  an  extra  pair  of  heavy  hobnailed  boots ; 
or  even  an  adventurer,  taking  the  provinces, — should  do  their 
best  during  a  journey,  to  entertain  all  the  thoughts,  feelings,  senti 
ments,  and  emotions  to  which  I  allude;  or  to  act  and  think 


INTRODUCTION.  13 

so  that  they  may  spring  up  in  future.  Travel,  like  youth,  is 
a  period  when  most  domestic  cares  are  borne  by  others,  in 
order  that  we  may  improve  our  ignorant  souls,  and  lay  up  glad 
recollections,  or,  according  to  Dr.  Watts,  "  shining  ears/7  for 
the  time  to  come.  Alas!  alas! — that  with  so  many,  these  il shin 
ing  ears"  should  be  like  the  golden  ones  of  King  Midas,  merely 


asinine 


"Alas!  he  has  made  a  pun!  M.  le  Courier — is  this  the  wav 
you  conduct  us  ?" — Ay,  carry  me  the  hangman,  but  it  is.  Travel, 
my  fair  Julie,  like  youth,  is  the  time  of  all  times  when  Dame  Fan 
tasia  hath  full  swing. 

Pardie!  my  children! — my  own,  my  minnie  darlings — you 
little  know  the  treasure  you  possess  in  your  old  courier.  He  will 
tell  you  the  stories  and  sing  you  the  songs  of  the  lands  you  are 
to  travel  in,  for  he  knows  them  all  as  well  as  the  probable  colour 
of  next  winter's  snow.  Bon  Gaultier  et  franc  compagnon,  he 
can  laugh  like  a  cup  of  flies,  and  draw  corks  with  his  handker 
chief.  Reserved  and  modest  in  his  demeanour,  he  will  allow 
nothing  in  his  exhibition  which  can  offend  the  feelings  of  the 
most  fastidious ! — ergo  bibamusfrafercule — (therefore,  0  brother, 
let  us  be  temperate) — and  hand  the  ladies  in  ! 

"  Vive  la  Grande  Route  !"  But  I  cannot  satisfy  everybody. 
For  you,  young  gentlemen,  just  from  college,  the  continent  is  a 
fiery  ordeal,  and  he  who  gets  through  without  scorching  a  few 
feathers,  may  sing  out  in  dulci  jubilo.  I  had  as  lief  drive  pigs 
through  a  corn-field,  as  undertake  to  bring  you  virtuously  through  : 
but — pay  your  fare;  jump  in,  and — ahem,  hush!  (I'll  see  what 
lean  do  for  you .) 

But  thrice  hail  you,  ye  joval  bachelors  !  come  along,  if  any- 
l>ody  is  to  come.  Make  glad  our  hearts  with  your  quips  and 
cranks,  your  shouts  and  jokes.  Join  with  us  in  carolling  and 
chanting !  Roar  out  a  merrie  tol  de  rol,  juvivallera  chorus  to  my 
songs,  until  the  inn-keepers  twig  our  approach  an  hour  before  the 
arrival  of  our  avant-courier.  Ye  shall  sit  with  me  after  dinner, 
when  the  ladies  have  retired.  For  your  sakes  the  landlord  shall 
mysteriously  impart  in  an  undertone  those  golden  scraps  of  in 
formation,  not  meant  for  the  slow  "  outsiders/7  I  will  find  out 
for  you  the  lurking-places  and  rendezvous  of  good  cigars  and 
cogniac.  Black  eyes,  braided  locks,  and  opera  tickets  shall  con 
sole  you  during  our  long,  long  pilgrimage. 


14  SKETCH-BOOK    OF    ME,    MEISTER    KARL. 

Linger  not,  for  already  our  horses  paw  the  ground :  MONTEZ  ! 

EN  AVANT  !    MARCHONS  ! 

"I'm  in  every  land  at  home, 
And  in  every  home  content; 
If  I  northward  chance  to  roam, 
Or  my  course  be  south  ward  bent, 
Happy,  though  alone — afar; 
Vbi  benc,  ibi  patria  !" 

And  do  you,  0  beautiful  ladies,  ("and  all  amiable  ladies  are 
beautiful/')  smile  upon  us,  and  gladden  us  with  your  glances. 
Be  your  eyes  black  or  blue;  your  hair  jet,  golden,  or  chataiyne 
foncte  of  dark  chestnut;  be  ye  stately  queens,  or  dear  little  dar 
lings;  dames  of  high  degree,  or  nice  petite  niignonne  milliners, 
still  favour  us  with  your  presence.  Open  your  windows,  be  they 
in  the  second,  third,  fourth,  or  fifth  stories;  wave  your  white 
handkerchiefs;  hurrah,  and  cast  out  flowers  upon  our  merry  old 
diligence,  as  it  lumbers  by.  Meet  us  at  the  table  d'hote;  do 
us  the  distinguished  honour  to  visit  the  opera  under  our  escort ; 
catch  us  accidentally  in  the  long,  dark  entries  of  our  hotels. 
You  will  waltz  with  us  in  Vienna  to  the  music  of  Strauss;  faint 
into  our  arms  on  the  summit  of  Vesuvius,  and  go  with  us,  well- 
bedomino'd,  to  the  grand  masked  balls  of  the  Opera,  and  the 
Prado!  Oh  yes,  you  icitt !  Don't  say  no,  for  Mamma  will 
never  find  it  out. 

Hide  my  book  in  your  beautiful  muff.  M'lle  P will 

purchase  it  for  her  Select  Library  of  Foreign  Romance.  M'lles 
Amcnaide,  Andis,  Coralie,  Hor tense,  CamiUe,  Nini,  Fifinc,  Jo 
sephine,  and  Fiddlededine  will  study  that  barragouinage  Anglais, 
that  they  may  read  it  to  one  another,  and  to  Milord  Smith.  Her 
illustrious  highness,  the of ,  will  expire  under  its  in 
fluence.  The  white-coated  courier  will  become  an  historico- 
romatic  personage.  After-ages  will  dispute  whether  he  was  a 
man  or  a  myth;  and  the  great  unwritten  epic  of  the  twentieth 
century  will  be  founded  on  his  adventures.  But  I  cannot  stand 
preaching  here : 

"  Brevis  oratio  penetrat  coelos, 
Longa  potatio  evacuat  scyphos." 

The  last  crack  of  our  whip,  the  last  blast  of  our  horn ;  already 
the  sign  of  our  hotel  is  a  mote  in  the  distance.  Adieu,  0  Reg 
nant  mon  amy  ! — 0  mon  amy  Rcgnavf  ! 


CERTAIN     TRAVELLERS    DISCUSSED.  15 


CHAPTER  THE  FIRST. 

IN  WHICH  THE  COURIER  DISCUSSES  CERTAIN  TRAVELLERS  OR 
"SEREINS"  WHO  JOURNEY  TO  AND  FRO  WITHOUT  KNOW 
ING  HOW;  AND  CONCLUDES  BY  ILLUSTRATING  THE  PROVERB, 
"HE  IS  POOR  INDEED  WHO  CAN  PROMISE  NOTHING." 

"  I  LONTG  have  dwelt  in  Romanic, 
And  made  a  trip  beyond  the  sea; 
Have  had  a  fever  twice  while  there; 
And  suffered  damage  everywhere. 
But  all  the  troubles  I've  withstood, 
In  Syria,  Rome,  by  field  or  flood, 
Were  naught,  compared  to  my  vexations 
From  travelling  flats,  in  foreign  nations." 

TIBAUT,  ROY  DE  NAVARRE,  improved. 

LORD  BACON  hath  well  remarked  in  his  essays,  "He  that 
travelleth  into  a  country,  before  he  hath  some  entrance  into  the 
language,  goeth  to  school,  and  not  to  travel."  Since  Bacon's 
time,  matters  have  materially  mended  in  this  respect.  Phrase- 
books  are  no  longer  absolutely  indispensable,  for  every  head- 
waiter  on  the  continent  receives  at  present  such  an  education  that 
he  might,  if  so  minded,  relinquish  at  any  time  his  situation  for 
the  less  lucrative  appointment  of  Professor  of  Modern  Languages 
in  a  university.  And  not  only  the  head-waiters,  but  many 
others,  of  different  employments  and  capacities.  Did  not  my 
friend  Leon  tell  me  how  Harry,  one  day,  on  entering  an  obscure 
little  shop  in  the  dirtiest  corner  of  the  Rue  Serpent,  was  asto 
nished,  after  inquiring,  with  great  difficulty,  "  Avez  voo  doo  eaude 
soda?''  to  hear  the  trim  demoiselle  reply,  with  incredible  quick 
ness,  "Yes,  sir,  soda  watair,  and  very  nice  ginger-biere,  too — 
Messed  if  we  haven't!"  Ah,  my  friends,  this  is  a  great  age  we 
live  in ! 

Yes,  a  very  great  age ;  nevertheless,  he  who  travels  with  only 
one  language,  might  as  well  undertake  to  run  with  one  leg,  if 
information  or  pleasure  be  of  any  moment.  Of  all  parts  of  a 
young  gentleman's  education,  the  most  expensive  and  difficult  is 


16  SKETCH-BOOK    OF    ME,    MEISTER    KARL. 

that  of  putting  him  up  to  a  thing  or  two,  which  can  rarely  be 
effected  abroad,  solely  through  the  medium  of  his  native  tongue. 
It  has  been  said  (by  Mrs.  Catnip)  that  the  most  agreeable  and 
instructive  things  which  we  hear  are  intended  for  the  ears  of 
others;  and  you  are  all  aware,  good  friends,  that  foreigners  are 
not,  generally  speaking,  in  the  habit  of  expressing  such  remarks 
in  the  English  language;  although  I  have  known  rare  instances 
to  occur,  in  which  the  natives,  stimulated  by  a  laudable  excess  of 
caution,  have  breathed  out  their  heart's  secrets  to  each  other  in 
that  tongue,  to  the  infinite  delight  of  the  John  Bulls  in  the  next 
box. 

Therefore,  Theodore  Augustus,  mind  your  grammar.  There 
fore,  Therese  Maria,  attend  to  the  lessons  of  madame,  for  great 
will  be  your  reward  in  days  to  come. 

Beware  lest  your  personal  appearance  indicate  "slowness." 
Remember  that  this  wicked  world  persecutes  innocence,  making 
it  pay  for  dinners  and  drinks  that  it  never  ordered.  "  He's  vus  nor 
vicked — he  looks  green,"  was  the  reason  assigned  by  the  butcher 
for  turning  his  only  son  out  of  doors ;  therefore  study  in  the  first 
place  to  make  your  outward  man  serve  as  a  sign  to  indicate  the 
immensely  wide-awake  soul  which  lodges  within.  Remember  that 
there  are  vast  numbers  of  people  who,  to  use  the  words  of  Mon 
taigne,  "supportent  phis  malaysemcnt  line  rolbe,  qu'une  ame  de 
travers"  If  jou  wear  a  blue  silk  neckerchief,  occasionally 
white-spotted,  with  tweedish  clothes  and  light  cap,  you  will  be 
taken  for  English.  If  you  dress  in  black  from  head  to  foot, 
(and  have  in  your  trunk  a  black-glazed  cap,  and  small  whisp- 
broom,  "to  sweep  de  cloze  iciz"  as  I  heard  a  Prussian  once  say,) 
for  an  American.  If  in  square-cut  green  frock-coat  and  braided 
cap,  for  a  German.  The  first  is  the  most  comfortable,  the  second 
the  most  respectable,  and  the  third  the  most  economical;  for 
a  landlord  would  as  soon  think  of  overcharging  his  own  son  as  a 
Dentscher. 

AGLIONBY  RALPH  DE  SQUILTERS  was  an  English  gentleman 
of  good  estate,  and  an  illustrious  example  of  those  who  travel 
without  knowing  how.  lie  never  spoke  "the  d — d  language." 
He  always  wanted  black  tea,  and  boasted  of  having  rung  for  the 
servants  forty  times  in  one  day.  And  he  always  conversed  in 
English  at  the  table-d'hote,  making  very  particular  remarks  about 
the  personal  appearance  of  those  present,  occasionally  getting 


CERTAIN    TRAVELLERS    DISCUSSED.  17 

himself  into  scrapes,  from  which  all  the  aplomb  of  a  graduated 
lorette  would  never  have  extricated  him.  I  remember  once,  at 
the  Erzherzog  Carl  in  Vienna,  hearing  him  criticise  the  appear 
ance  of  all  present,  from  "the  old  file  in  yellow  moustaches/7 
down  to  "  the  little  turnip-nose,  who  calls  herself  a  countess," 
until  he  settled  upon  the  spectacles  of  a  sedate,  respectable  old 
gentleman,  and  wondered  whether  they  were  gilt  or  golden. 
Great  was  the  astonishment  of  Ag.  de  Sq.  when  the  old  gentle 
man  handed  them  to  him,  remarking,  in  English,  "  Perhaps,  sir, 
you  would  like  to  examine  for  yourself."  Poor  Squilters  could 
only  give  vent  to  an  "  Oh — ah !"  which  sounded  as  if  he  had  just 
received  a  kick  in  the  abdomen;  when  his  victim  added,  "  And 
perhaps,  sir,  considering  that  the  majority  of  those  present  under 
stand  English,  you  will  be  pleased  to  make  your  insolent  remarks 
in  a  lower  tone  of  voice." 

There  is  the  indifferent  traveller,  who  leaves  his  soul  for  safe 
keeping  with  the  landlord,  or  valet-de-place,  or  any  chance  "com- 
pagnon  de  voyage"  whom  destiny  may  provide.  There  is  the 
suspicious  traveller — poor  creature !  I  have  heard  of  a  man  who 
fancied  that  he  was  the  only  bona-fide  human  being  in  existence ; 
that  all  the  brave  men  and  merry  maidens  who  circle  over  this 
green  world  were  demons  or  goblins,  wearing  the  mere  sem 
blance  of  humanity;  winking  at  one  another  when  his  back  was 
turned,  and  playing  him  incessantly  a  ghastly,  insincere  game  of 
life.  About  as  agreeable  must  the  life  of  that  traveller  be,  who 
ever  fancies  that  all  the  inn-keepers,  waiters,  chance  foreign  ac 
quaintances,  etc.,  are  banded  together  to  cheat,  swindle,  and  delude 
him.  Such  travellers  are  not  to  be  "  done" — not  they!  They  lay 
deep  counterplots  against  the  Machiavellian  devices  of  their  land- 
kidies,  and  cheat  themselves  out  of  many  happy  hours,  days,  or 
months,  in  order  to  avoid  being  a  little  comfortably  cheated  by 
others ;  urged,  half  the  time,  not  by  mercenary  motives,  but  by  a 
mere  nervous  dread  of  being  cheated ! 

Ah  bah ! — the  deuce  carry  for  me  the  fifty  thousand  fools  who 
are  at  this  moment  "doing  the  continent,"  and  the  hundred  and 
fifty  thousand  who  intend  doing  it  as  soon  as  convenient !  But 
no;  they  must  needs  tumble  round  like  the  rest,  and  collect  bon 
bons  and  bonnes-fortunes,  pictures,  mosaics,  cameos,  and  roman 
tic  adventures,  at  the  lowest  market  price.  They  must  needs  be 
flea-bitten,  garlicked,  sauer-krauted,  diligcnced,  vetturino'd,  table- 


18  SKETCH-BOOK    OP    ME,    MEISTER    KARL. 

d'hoted,  bal-masque"d,  and  humbugged,  as  their  fathers  were 
before. 

Hurrah !  then,  I  say,  for  travel !  Go  on  as  ye  have  begun, 
sweet  friends !  and  in  fifty  years  every  other  house  abroad  will 
be  an  Hotel  dcs  lies  Britanniques ;  every  shop,  devoted  to  the 
sale  of  John  Murray;  and  the  natives,  forgetting  their  respect 
ive  German,  Italian,  Polish,  and  Hungarian  mother  tongues,  will 
speak  no  language  save  bad  French  or  worse  English;  and  so 
ciety,  changed  to  its  very  roots,  will  consist  of  only  two  classes — 
those  who  travel,  and  those  who  minister  unto  their  wants. 

0  Reynautmon  amy,  let  me  depart  in  good  humour! 

Yes,  let  me  talk  myself  into  a  good  humour  over  the  golden 
visions,  the  wonderful  scenes  which  I  intend  to  reveal  to  your 
enraptured  eyes.  For  should  time  permit,  nor  inclination  fail,  I 
will  bear  ye  afar  on  the  fresh  wings  of  the  spirit  through  the 
purple  light  of  spring  into  the  black-letter,  legendary  land,  far — 
far  away. 

Over  the  fountains, 

And  under  the  Avaves; 
Over  the  mountains, 

And  under  the  graves. 

— Describing  to  ye  meanwhile  such  matters  as  the  quarrel  I  had 
with  my  friend  Herter,  a  student  of  law,  for  throwing  a  stone  at 
Lola  Montez,  the  art  of  cheating  custom-house  officers,  patent 
blacking,  the  Lake  of  Como,  true  piety,  evenings  with  the  gri- 
settes,  spring  fever,  head-waiters,  the  raise  a  deux  temps,  and,  to  be 
consistently  inconsistent,  an  occasional  flight  of  the  most  esoteric 
nonsense  which  ever  bewildered  the  common  sense  of  an  idiot. 
Yea — and  the  Lola  Montez  item  above  alluded  to,  and  the 
Jesuits,  (not  alluded  to,)  reminds  me  that  I  can,  if  I  will,  answer 
the  question  so  unblushingly  put  ages  ago  by  St.  Senanus — of 


-Quid  foeminis 


Commune  est  cum  monachis? 

Or,  what  constitutes  the  peculiar  affinity  of  ladies  for  young 
clergymen?  In  other  words,  Why  hath  "the  muslin"  such  an  af 
finity  for  "the  cloth?" — These  be  subtle  mysteries. 

Out  of  the  fulness  of  my  heart,  I  will  even  copy  down  the 
names  of  streets,  the  inscriptions  on  cook's  shops  and  Gothic 
cathedrals  ;  print  my  washerwoman's  bills,  verb,  et  lit. ;  kick  up 
the  diabfe  a  quatre  ;  tell  tales  out  of  school,  and  throw  ye  all  into 


THE     PEN     IN     THE     INKSTAND.  19 

mirific  ecstasies.  Zeit  bringt  rosen — time  brings  roses.  Wait 
only,  and  see  what  dainty  flowers  will  spring  up  from  this  root 
of  an  introduction.  Do  you  think  that  I  will  not  do  all  this,  and 
more  ?  Give  heed,  my  friends,  to  this  my  motto,  which  I  drew 
from  Master  Euphues  Lylie's  Anatomie  of  Wit:  u Hennes  do 
not  laye  egges  when  tliey  cluck,  but  when  they  cackle  ;  nor  'men  set 
forthe  bookes  wlien  they  promise,  but  whenne  theye  perform." 


CHAPTER   THE   SECOND. 

STYLUS    IN    PIXIDE — THE    PEN  IN    THE    INKSTAND. 

Munich,  May  1. 
"YE  furniture  was  olde  and  badde, 

It  had  a  mustie  smelle  ; 
I  thinke  upon  such  stooles  as  these 
Ye  damned  doe  sitte  in  Helle. 

"  Yet  even  thys  I  might  haue  borne, 

Perhaps  as  muche  agen, 
Had  not  mine  hostesse  come  eche  daye 
Toe  borrowe  inke  and  penne  !" 

"  ROMAUNT  OF  YK  SPOONE." 

QUOT  HOMINES  TOT  SENTENTI^.  "  So  many  men,  so  many 
minds. "  Everybody  will,  however,  agree  with  me  in  the  opi 
nion  that  young  lovers  are  terribly  addicted  to  scribbling  the 
names  of  their  dearests,  and  occasionally  in  most  inappropriate 
places.  Gentle  friends!  I  had  just  laid  aside  a  nice  rough 
sheet  of  paper  for  this  chapter,  and  left  the  room  for  an  instant 
to  light  a  cigar.  Enter  my  dear  friend,  Leonard,  takes  up 
a  pen,  and  absent-mindedly  writes  "  Elo'ise"  over  it,  in  as  many 
varieties  of  cacography.  I  enter — discover  the  Eloises — and 
wish  him  forty  times  an  Abelard  for  their  sakes ! 

Young  ladies,  however,  as  well  as  gentleman,  are,  and  have 
been  in  every  age,  addicted  to  meddling  with  other  people's  pens 
and  ink. 

At  my  right  hand  lies  a  dusky  black-letter  folio — a  theological 
affair:  Moralisationum  Reductorium  super  totam  J3ibliam," 
printed  A.  Dni.  1515.  On  the  fly-leaf  is  written  in  faded  ink 
the  following  sentence : 


SKETCH-BOOK    OF    ME,    MEISTER    KARL. 


"f.  33j>ri)frtr  jou  man  fcc  jjlate  tfjat  50  p«mtcs  anfc  jnfeonu  55  cjont  for 
fastest  fiooman  $n  tfjsa  toorlfoc  fjauc  tljtm  fontuns  t&at  to  f.  afcros  n 
an&  nuns   mo,  tfjc  tojtf)  tooma  js  jalltbr  Jtlsaijtf)  passinu  tfjat 


I  often  muse  over  this  old  fly-leaf,  and,  sooth  to  say,  have  dis 
covered,  either  in  it  or  in  my  own  mind,  many  little  romantic 
passages,  all  inspired  with  sweet  sunny.  melancholy,  with  quaint 
old  conceits;  with  smiles  and  tears.  How  did  the  mysterious 
"f.  Byrherd"  look,  when  he  returned  and  found  his  "pennes" 
and  "ynkorne"  vanished,  "  among  the  missing/7  and  naught  to 
console  him  for  their  loss,  save  the  comforting  assurance  of  that 
arch-villain  Ambrose,  that  the  fairest  woman  in  this  world  had 
hooked  them?  Who  were  the  "many  more,"  the  mysterious 
cloud  of  witnesses  to  this  nefarious  transaction,  or  where  are 
they?  Passed  away  like  dim  clouds  into  the  evening  red;  like 
music  heard  in  dreams;  like  phantoms  into  night!  And  the 
beautiful,  roguish,  mischievous  Elizabeth  ?  —  comes  there  through 
the  dusty  halls  of  long  centuries  no  echo  of  the  fame  of  one  who 
was  in  her  day  the  "fayr&t?" 

"Fadeth  swccte  flower,  and  beauty  pales  away." 

It  may  be  further  remarked  that  some  one,  with  the  same  ink, 
and  apparently  the  same  "pennc,"  has  scrawled,  with  no  clerkly 
hand,  lines  all  over  the  sentence,  as  if  to  render  it  illegible.  But 
as  the  said  scrawling  is  done  in  a  very  light,  careless  manner,  as 
if  merely  to  keep  up  appearances,  without  any  serious  intention 
of  spoiling  the  affair,  the  reader  will  agree  with  me  that  it  was 
probably  executed  by  the  fair  hand  of  Miss  Elizabeth  herself, 
who  wished,  of  course,  to  sport  a  little  modesty,  and  yet  was  not 
at  heart  very  seriously  vexed  at  Monsieur  Ambrose's  compliment. 
O  girls  !  girls  !  you  have  always  been  the  same  in  every  age  ! 

Yes,  indeed,  have  you.  By  Jove  !  since  I  wrote  that  last  sen 
tence,  I  went  out  of  the  room,  and,  on  returning,  found  that  Miss 
Anna  had  entered,  and  feloniously  abstracted  my  writing-gear.  I 
"  put"  after  the  young  lady  and  reclaimed  the  property,  despite  the 


*  "FRIEND  BYRHEUD,  you  may  be  glad  that  your  pennes  and  inkhorne 
is  gone,  for  the  fairest  woman  in  this  world  hath  them,  witness  thereto  friend 
AMBROSE  MITCHELL,  and  many  more,  the  which  woman  is  called  ELIZABETH 
PASSUNE  that  gave  them." 


THE   PEN   IN    THE   INKSTAND.  21 

mollifying  excuse  "that  she  had  just  taken  penand  ink  to  writeafew 
lines  to  Cousin  Becky !"  This  was  an  illustration  of  iny  remark 
which  I  little  anticipated.  Was  there  ever  a  gentleman  whose  scrib 
bling  plunder  has  not  been  walked  off  with,  from  time  to  time,  by 
the  feminine  part  of  the  household  ?  Was  there  ever  a  gentle 
man  who  did  not  grind  out  "Anathema!"  etc.  etc.  etc.  (or  some 
thing  like  it)  from  between  his  teeth,  on  such  joyful  occasions? 
And,  finally,  is  there  a  gentleman  who  will  not  agree  with  me 
that  this  was  probably  the  true  reason  why  ladies  have  always 
been  prohibited  from  entering  Roman  Catholic  monasteries,  and 
other  retreats  of  literary  clergymen. 

"Nee  te,  nee  ullam  aliam 
Admittainus  in  insulam." 

Which  signifieth:  "It's  all  very  well,  Miss  Ferguson;  you're  a 
good-looking  young  lady,  but  you  can't  come  in!"  The  holy 
brother,  after  this  speech,  probably  added,  in  a  low  tone,  "More's 
the  pity!" 

But  the  legend  says  nothing  about  that. 

I  declare  I  have  conjured  up  quite  a  little  picture  from  that 
old  fly-leaf.  I  fancy  that  I  see  pretty  Elsabyth  bearing  off  in 
triumph  poor  Byrherd's  pens  and  ink;  an  arch  smile  on  her  co 
quettish  face,  while  gallant  Master  Ambrose  detains  her  for  an 
instant,  to  scrawl  in  Gothic  hand  the  annunciation.  Anon  she 
becomes  interested,  and  peers  over  his  shoulder,  with  all  the  mer- 
rie  "  wytnesses ;"  and  when  fully  aware  of  the  meaning,  grasps 
a  pen,  and  makes  as  if  she  would  fain  obliterate  the  saucy  com 
pliment.  Then  the  whole  gay  party  bound  away,  leaving  in 
everlasting  doubt  and  mystery  the  question  as  to  whom  she  gave 
the  writing  apparatus — for  the  sentence  is  unfinished. 

"And  they  are  gone ;  ay,  ages  long  ago, 
These  lovers  fled  away  into  the  storm" — 

And  the  eyes  of  the  fair  Elsabyth  have  grown  dim,  and  merry 
master  Andrew  laugheth  no  longer  amid  his  gibes,  his  gambols, 
his  songs ;  and  the  grave  Byrherd  hath  passed  silently  away  with 
his  books  and  his  inkhorn  into  eternity  and  night,  and  that  faded 
fly-leaf  is  the  sole  fragile  record  of  those  who  were  once  beautiful 
and  gay. —  Oh  didmiri!  Orgia! 


22  SKETCH-BOOK   OF   ME,    MEISTER    KARL. 


CHAPTER   THE    THIRD. 

DEDICATED   TO   THE   LADIES. 

"Early  and  late  the  sex  I  praise, 
And  fain  their  praises  would  deserve  ; 
The  man  who  mocks  at  woman's  grace, 
And  from  my  course  would  make  me  swerve, 
I'd  straight  attack  with  bitterest  song  — 
I  praise  the  worthy,  lovely  dames 
Who  turn  our  minds  from  wrong." 

HEINRICH  FRAUENLOB,  A.  D.  1270. 

EHRET  DIE  FRAUEN!  And  in  good  faith,  most  excellent 
friends,  it  is  high  time  that  a  little  devotion,  a  little  exclusive  at 
tention,  some  courtesy  and  politeness,  or  at  least  a  few  compli 
ments,  be  paid  to  those  excellent  ladies,  who  have  so  kindly,  so 
generously,  put  themselves  under  my  charge,  and  travelled  with 
out  flinching  through  the  previous  chapter. 

But  as  I  believe  it  impossible  for  a  gentleman  to  compliment  the 
gentler  sex  with  as  much  zeal,  tact,  earnestness,  and  ingenuity  as 
they  themselves  have  already  employed  in  this  noble  pursuit,  I 
shall  simply  translate  from  the  Italian  a  little  golden  book,  or 
tractatus,  on  the  nobility  and  superiority  of  the  female  sex  —  not, 
however,  by  Cornelius  Agrippa,  but  by  a  Venetian  lady,  who, 
oddly  enough,  masquerades  in  her  title-page  as  a  French 
woman. 

THE  VINDICATION! 

A   CURIOUS   AND   INTERESTING   WORK   OP   THE   NINE 

THOUSAND,    NINE    HUNDRED    AND    NINETY- 

NINE   EXCELLENCIES    AND 

BEAUTIES    OP 


IN  WHICH  IT  IS  SHOWN  THAT,  FOR  MANY  REASONS,  WOMAN 

IS  NOBLER  AND  MORE  EXCELLENT  THAN  MAN  ! 
PUBLISHED    BY    MADAME    ADRIANELLA    OP    PARIS. 

PRAISED  be  the  ETERNAL  ARCHITECT  and  CREATOR  of  all 
Things,  that  I  was  born  a  Woman,  and  not  a  Man,  and  I  am 
always  thankful  for  the  noble  Title  of  Woman,  w^ich  hath  been 


DEDICATED   TO   THE   LADIES.  23 

granted  unto  me;  albeit  that  Men  have  often  asserted  their  Su 
periority,  and  with  false  reasoning  blasphemed  the  Female  Sex. 
And  such  do  I  compare  to  Vipers,  who  immediately  after  Birth 
seek  with  poisonous  Teeth  to  slay  their  Mother.  For  even  so 
doth  that  Man,  who,  after  being  conceived  and  nourished  by  his 
Mother,  shows  his  Gratitude  by  speaking  lightly  of  the  Female 
Sex. 

Now  will  I  prove  that  "Woman  is  far  nobler  than  Man,  and 
put  to  silence,  perhaps  the  Blush,  those  who  have  dared  to  find 
Fault  with  so  noble  a  Creature  as  Woman. 

"  Or  vedi  se  tu  sei  Pazzo  insensate 
Se  partorito  Donna  non  t'avesse 
Dimmi,  saresti  tu  al  mondo  nato  ?" 

And  see  what  an  insensate  fool  thou  art ! 
For  had  not  Woman  borne  thee  in  her  womb, 
Wouldst  thou  have  ever  entered  in  the  world  ? 

Aristotle,  in  his  seventh  Book  on  Animals,  having  philoso 
phized  on  the  internal  Structure  of  Man  and  of  Woman,  finds 
that  the  latter  is  more  inclined  to  Pity  and  Compassion,  and 
therefore  more  merciful  than  Man.  Now  Compassion  and  Mercy 
being  the  highest  attributes  of  our  Nature,  we  may  well  say  that 
Woman  is  far  nobler  than  Man. 

Solomon  hath  said  (7  Prov.)  that  Man  should  receive  Conso 
lation  from  Woman.  Now  the  Consoler  is  greater  than  the  Con 
soled;  therefore  is  Woman  superior  to  Man. 

Nature  itself  hath  established  the  superiority  of  the  Female 
Sex,  by  giving  them  smooth  Faces,  free  from  Hair,  by  which 
they  are  distinguished  from  the  BRUTE  CREATION.  But  Man 
hath  not  this  distinction,  and  I  therefore  assert  that  Woman  is 
nobler  tnan  Man ! 

We  may  not  deny  that  the  Thing  moved  is  inferior  to  the 
Mover.  The  Sun  is  superior  to  the  Vapours  which  it  attracts,  the 
Magnet  to  the  Iron,  the  Amber  to  the  Straws.  But  far  more 
excellent  is  Woman  than  the  Hearts  which  she  draws  unto  her, 
even  from  distant  Lands.  Be  silent,  therefore,  0  Man!  thou 
that  art,  most  justly,  the  Servant  and  Slave  of  Woman. 

If  we  speak  of  Names,  it  cannot  be  denied  that  feminine  Ap 
pellations  are  nobler  than  masculine;  and  if  anyone  should  assert 
that  there  is  no  nobler  Name  than  that  of  Heaven,  which  in  our 


24  SKETCH-BOOK    OF    ME,    MEISTER    KARL. 

Italian  Tongue  is  masculine,  I  reply  that  the  Intelligence  by 
which  the  Heaven  is  governe'd  hath  the  true  Superiority,  and  the 
word  Intelligence  (La  Intelligenza)  is  feminine. 

This  Excellence  extends  even  unto  the  Names  of  Birds,  for 
the  Phoenix,  (La  Fenice,')  of  which,  as  the  Egyptians  have  writ 
ten,  but  One  exists,  and  the  Eagle,  (VAquila,}  which  is  Queen  of 
all,  are  both  feminine  in  their  Appellation.  But  all  ferocious  and 
poisonous  Animals  have  naturally  masculine  Names,  such  as  the 
Basilisk,  which  slays  us  with  his  Glance  alone,  not  to  mention 
the  Wolf,  Bear,  Dragon,  Serpent,  and  Lion,  which  are  all  mas 
culine.  Be  silent,  therefore,  0  Man !  for  even  the  brute  Beasts 
do  accuse  thee,  and  not  AVonaan,  of  having  a  vile  Nature. 

But  if  we  look  to  feminine  Names,  we  find  that  they  are  all 
good.  For  Brevity's  sake  I  will  only  mention  a  few,  such  as 
Justice,  Temperance,  Fortitude,  Chastity,  Charity,  Honesty,  Holi 
ness,  Health,  Religion,  Reputation,  Life,  Peace,  Glory,  Mercy, 
Beauty,  Wealth,  Humility,  Fortune,  Reason,  Conco*d — enough 
to  prove  that  Man  is  far  inferior  to  Woman.  Or  look  to  the 
Names  of  Cities,  if  we  would  establish  yet  another  point  in  our 
Favour.  For  we  find : 

L'antica  Roma,  .         .     Rome  the  ancient. 

La  ricca  Venezia,        .         .     Venice  the  wealthy. 

La  gentil  Partenope,  .          .     Naples  the  agreeable. 

La  Superba  Geneva,    .         .     Genoa  the  proud. 

La  dotta  Perugia,        .         .     Perugia  the  learned. 

La  nobile  Ferrara,       .         .     Ferrara  the  noble. 

LA  LOQUACE  SIENA,  .     .    *.    SIENNA  THE  TALKATIVE  ! 

La  grassa  Bologna,      .         .     Bologna  the  fertile. 

La  forte  Padova,      .  ••        .     Padua    "] 

La  forte  Mantoa,         .         .     Mantua  I 

La  forte  Verona,     [_  .  '      .     Veroni   \^  stronS' 

La  forte  Malta,  .         .     Malta     J 

La  bella  Fiorenza,       .         .     Florence  the  beautiful. 
All  the  Countries  in  the  World  have  feminine  Names:  Italia, 
Spagna,  Francia,  Turchia,  Fiandra,  (Flanders,)  Grecia,  Alemag- 
na,  (Germany,)  Africa,  India,  Morca,  Terra  Santa,  (Palestine,) 
Lombardia,  La  Toscaua,  La  Marca,  Puglia,  and  Calabria.* 
Also  all  Islands  and  Fortresses. 

*  "And  America." — WOLF  SHORT. 


WOLF   SHORT.  25 

Learning  and  wisdom  also  declare  for  the  Nome  donneschi,  or 
feminine  Names,  as  La  Filosofia,  La  Geometria,  La  Strologtd, 
La  Matimatica,  La  Fisica,  La  Chiruryia,  (Surgery,)  and  La 
nolilissima  Musica,  the  most  noble 'Art  of  Music. 

Dost  thou  assert  that  Woman  is  deprived  of  Liberty,  and  not 
Man  ?  I  reply  that  precious  Stones  and  rich  Treasures  are  justly 
locked  up,  and  kept  safe;  sweet  fruit  Trees  are  surrounded  by 
lofty  Walls,  and  of  course  Woman  should  be  thus  guarded,  since 
she  is  truly  the  richest  Gem,  the  most  inestimable  of  Treasures, 
and  delicious  of  Plants. 


.       CHAPTER  THE  FOURTH. 

OP    MY   TRAVELLING   COMPANION   WOLF   SHORT,    AND   WHERE 
AND   HOW   I   FIRST   BECAME   ACQUAINTED   WITH   HIM. 

"  EIN  Genie  ist  uberall, 
In  Lapland  und  Amerika; 
Sogar  in  Portugal, 
In  China  und  Siberien 
Von  jedem  Menschen  gern  geseh'n." 

GERMAN  COURIER'S  SONG. 

"EL  SENOR  SHORT  has  been  for  the  last  week  here  at  the 
hotel,  but  left  this  morning  for  the  Havana." 

"The  devil  he  did!" 

Was  there  ever  any  thing  so  confoundedly  vexatious  ?  To  be 
in  Gibraltar  alone  was  bad  enough;  but  to  know  that  a  man  of 
sense,  talent,  and  information  had  been  within  an  ace  of  becom 
ing  my  companion;  and  to  know  that  if  he  had  fraternized,  all 
ennui  would  have  vanished  like  uncorked  ether;  and  finally  to 
know  that  he  had  fairly  escaped  me,  was  enough  to  make  a  saint 
swear. 

And  being  no  saint         .... 

I  HAD  heard  of  WOLF  SHORT  once  before.  While  in  New 
York,  I  had  been  referred  to  him,  as  the  only  person  who  could 
supply  my  elderly  friend,  Miss ,  with  certain  authentic  ma 
terials  for  her  "GRAND  COMPREHENSIVE  SURVEY  OF  THE 


26  SKETCH-BOOK  OP  ME,  METSTER  KARL. 

AFRICAN  RACE,  AS  IT  NOW  EXISTS  IN  DIFFERENT  PARTS  OF 
THE  WORLD."  At  her  urgent  entreaty,  and  supplied  with  a 
letter  of  introduction,  obtained — HEAVEN  knows  from  whom — I 
called  at  his  hotel.  He  had  departed — no  one  knew  whither. 
Our  proceeding  had  been  conducted  with  all  imaginary  secresy, 
but  Short  was  too  old  a  bird  to  be  thus  caught.  He  had  taken 
the  alarm,  and  fled.  On  his  table  lay  a  card,  on  which  was 
written  in  round,  deliberate-looking  letters,  the  following  shock 
ingly  unphilanthropic  message : 

"  Devil  take  the  African  Race. 

"  Yours  truly, 

"  WOLF  SHORT." 

The  men  who  remain  at  a  table  d'hote,  after  the  dessert  are  not 
unfrequently  of  an  original  and  decided  cast  of  mind.  The  la 
dies,  being  lightest,  (I  mean  most  aerial,)  are  naturally  blown 
away  by  the  first  puff  of  a  cigar.  Then  the  young  gentlemen 
depart,  on  their  evening  visits,  and  are  speedily  followed  by  the 
sober  married  men,  leaving  the  field  in  possession  of  the  old 
bachelors  and  philosophers. 

I  was  thus  seated  after  dinner  in  the  long  salle-ci-manger  of  the 
Hotel  de  V Europe  in  Venice.  The  broad  windows  admitted  the 
cool  evening  breeze,  and  at  the  same  time  afforded  a  magnificent 
view  of  the  city,  which,  in  the  rays  of  the  setting  sun,  seemed 
steeped  in  a  golden-crimson  bath.  Beneath  lay  the  Grand  Canal, 
already  crowded  witt  gondolas,  whose  occupants  were  hastening 
to  the  opera.  Caring  nothing  for  the  new  piece  of  Verdi's  an 
nounced  for  that  evening,  I  had  remained  quietly  smoking  in  my 
chair.  As  this  is  a  favorite  conversation-hour,  I  began  to  scan 
the  faces  of  my  fellow-boarders,  seeking  for  one  in  which  infor 
mation  and  urbanity  were  combined. 

At  the  head  of  the  table  were  half  a  dozen  of  those  " jolly 
dogs,"  who  in  every  hotel  seem  to  draw  together  by  intuitive 
attraction ;  men  who  dice  with  the  landlord  for  champagne,  talk, 
swear,  and  sing  in  many  languages,  and  make  more  noise  than 
all  the  rest  of  the  company  together.  At  my  right  hand  sat  a 
fat  old  Austrian  colonel,  conversing  earnestly  with  an  unfortunate- 
looking  young  gentleman  from  Vienna,  who  had  made  himself 
conspicuous  during  dinner  by  describing,  in  a  loud  tone,  the  pro- 


WOLF   SHORT.  27 

cess  of  picking  and  packing  oranges,  as  performed  in  Sicily. 
None  of  these  individuals  (save  indeed  the  jolly  dogs)  seemed 
worth  knowing.  * 

Directly  opposite  sat  a  quiet,  unobtrusive-looking  man,  in  brown 
moustaches.  So  remarkably  silent  had  he  been,  that  I  had 
during  dinner  hardly  noticed  his  presence.  He  might  have  been 
any  thing — a  diplomatist  or  a  chef  de  police — an  author  or  a  bag 
man.  But  one  could  readily  perceive  by  the  expression  of  his 
dark  eyes  that  he  was  no  fool. 

Master  Euphues  Lyly,  in  his  Anatomic  of  Witte,  expressly 
cautions  travellers  in  Italy  against  chance-acquaintances.  "  Be 
ware  V  saith  he.  "It  is  nature  of  that  country  to  sifte  stran 
gers;  every  one  that  shaketh  thee  by  the  hand  is  not  joyed  to  see 
thee  in  heart." 

Had  I  followed  the  advice  of  sweet  Master  Lyly  on  this  occa 
sion,  the  world  would  have  been  a  loser.  All  the  wit,  poetry, 
and  philosophy  latent  in  the  soul  and  writings  of  that  transcend 
ent  genius  Wolf,  (to  be  published  immediately  after  the  next 
great  revolution  in  Timbuctoo,  caused  by  the  rise  in  pearl- 
powder,)  would  have  remained  to  the  present  day  sub  rosa — under 
a  tea-kettle;  I  myself  would  have  missed  making  a  friend,  and 
the  evening  would  have  gone  to  the 

For  the  short  gentleman  in  brown  moustaches  was  no  other 
than  WOLF  SHORT  himself ! 


"  Ich  that  mich  zu  ihrn  setzen — ich  sah  ihm  in's  Gesicht, 
Das  schien  mir  gar  befreundet — und  dennoch  kannt'  ich's  nicht. 

"  Da  sah  auch  mir  in's  Auge  der  fremde  Wandersmann, 
Und  fiillte  meinen  Becher,  und  sah  mich  freundlich  an. 

"Hei !  was  die  Becher  klangen,  wie  brannte  Hand  in  Hand. 
'Es  lebe  die  Liebste,  deine — Herzbriider,  im  Vaterland.'" 

W.  MUELLER. 

I  AM  indebted  to  Wieland's  Abderites  for  the  idea  developed 
in  the  following  sentence : 

There  are  certain  men  in  this  world,  who  have  the  happy  fa 
culty  of  knowing  and  understanding  each  other,  and  of  becoming 
friends,  as  soon  as  they  meet.  Let  the  one  be  of  Anglo-Saxon 
and  the  other  of  Chinese  blood,  the  chances  are  ten  to  one  that, 
in  five  minutes'  conversation,  they  will  have  remembered  to  have 


28  SKETCH-BOOK   OF   ME,    MEISTER   KARL. 

heard  of  each  other — at  least  have  found  out  twenty  acquaint 
ances  in  common.  There  is  more  true  warmth  in  their  first 
meeting  than  many  men  show  to  their  best  friends;  ?nd  yet,  if 
they  meet  again  at  intervals  of  years,  the  reunion  is  like  that  of 
friends  who  have  but  recently  parted. 

A  man  of  this  description  is  termed  by  Rabelais,  "  Bon  Gaul- 
tier  et  Ion  compagnon."  In  German-student  slang  he  is  known 
as  a  "  kreutz  fiddcr  Kcrl,  und  wackrer  Kumpan"  I  should  call 
him,  myself,  a  Jolly  Good  Fellow,  which  expression,  correctly  ren 
dered,  means  a  gentleman,  a  scholar,  and  a  man  of  the  world. 

JOLLY  GOOD  FELLOWS  form  the  only  true  republicans  in 
existence.  For  they  know  and  recognise  at  a  glance  each  other's 
peculiarities  and  excellences,  whatever  be  their  rank  in  this 
world.  I  have  met  with  two  or  three  who  were  princes;  several, 
police  agents;  six  or  eight,  commercial  travellers ;  many  more, 
military  men;  a  sprinkling  of  students;  one  pirate;  and  any 
cfuantity  of  Catholic  priests,  more  particularly  Jesuits. 

Of  course  I  admit  modifications  and  variations  from  the  rule. 
Many  are  obliged,  in  the  way  of  business,  to  deviate  very  con 
siderably  from  those  principles  of  courtesy  and  gentleness  which 
form  the  mainspring  of  good  fellowship.  But  I  need  not  preach. 
Until  a  man  becomes  Bon  Gaultier  himself,  he  will  never  under 
stand  the  term,  and  when  he  does,  there  will  be  no  need  of  ex 
plaining  it  to  him.  For  a  poetical  example,  the  reader  of  Byron 
may  recall  Don  Juan's  companion  in  slavery : 

"Who  wept  upon  his  first  wife's  dying  clay, 
And  also  when  the  second  ran  away." 

"BiBAMtis,  FRATERCULE!"  cried  the  Wolf,  as  the  cork  from 
the  third  bottle  of  champagne  shot  upward  like  a  meteor  against 
the  under  lip  of  the  fresco  Venus  on  the  ceiling  above,  leaving 
thereon  a  fashionable  imperial — u  Bilamus,  fratercide!"  The 
bright  stars  are  flashing  through  the  dark  midnight,  like  the  eyes 
of  a  Signora  through  her  Carnival -mask ;  the  evening  breeze 
comes  cool  and  pleasant  from  the  Lido,  yet  bears  on  its  wings  no 
sound  save  the  ripple  of  the  waters,  and  the  faint  cry  of  the  dis 
tant  gondolier.  Lo,  we  sit  above  all,  alone  with  the  night;  and 
therefore — drink !  Is  not  this  hour  sacred  to  Bacchus  ? 

The  cold  foam-wine  leaped  from  its  flask,  like  a  brook  bursting 
from  the  icy  bonds  of  Winter. 


WOLF   SHORT. 


29 


"  He  was  right,"  cried  the  Wolf,  "  who  found  in  the  Ionic,  the 
Corinthian,  and  the  Doric,  symbols  of  the  girl,  the  matron,  and 
the  man.  With  as  much  reason  do  I  find  in  drinking-glasses  a 
similar  typification.  The  mighty  German  Pokal,  which  has  kept 
its  form  unchanged  from  the  Middle  Ages,  is  a  giant  knight,  who 
looks  down  on  all.  The  Hock  glass  is  a  quaint  and  most  vene 
rable  matron,  of  the  same  period.  But  thou,  0  Champagne  I" 
he  continued,  apostrophizing  his  brimming  beaker — "  in  thy  glass 
do  I  clearly  discern  the  form  of  a  slim  and  graceful  maiden.  And 
like  the  Elixir  of  Love  in  thy  human  archetype,  dost  thou  foam 
in  thy  crystal  prison  I" 

"Villanous  Wolf !"  I  cried,  "wilt  thou  linger  splashing  and 
puddling  on  the  margin  of  the  stream  of  poesie  ?  Spring  boldly 
in,  and  give  a  song !"  - 

"Am  I  a  wolf,"  he  replied;  "and  do  I  not  therefore  remember 
the  fate  of  a  classical  lupus  who  once  attempted  to  sing?  I  have.^ 
not  forgotten  .^Esop !" 

"Howl,  then,  0  Bisdaveret!  Garwal,  Wehr  Wulf,  Man 
Wolf,  or  Loup  Garou — but  let  the  song  be  forthcoming!" 

Thus  adjured,  the  Wolf  seated  himself  at  the  piano,  and  sang, 
to  an  inspiriting,  row-dowdy,  Low  Dutch  air,  the  following  verses : 

THE    SONG    OF    GOOD    FELLOWS. 


I  SING  of  Good  Fellows 

Of  every  degree: 
By  land  or  by  water, 

On  shore  or  at  sea ; 
In  dress-coats  or  petticoats, 

Bonnets  or  hats, 
In  h'aicks,  or  in  sheep-skins, 

In  blankets  or  mats  : 
Who  ever  in  all  things 

Right  bravely  agree ; 
For  such  are  good  fellows, 

Wherever  they  be. 


I  sing  of  good  fellows, 

Whatever  their  lives, 
As  monks  or  as  milliners, 

Captains  or  wives ; 
Of  the  good  and  true-hearted 

Who  laugh  at  the  world, 
Yet  are  happy,  wherever 

By  destiny  hurled ; 


Who  enjoy  all  its  folly, 

Yet  from  it  are  free  ; 
And  such  are  good  fellows, 

Wherever  they  be. 

I  sing  of  good  fellows, 

And  this  is  their  sign  ; 
They  rail  not  at  laughter, 

Love,  music,  or  wine; 
And  fear  not  lest  pleasure 

Should  swamp  them  below, 
Or  that  those  who  are  merry 

Must  overboard  go ; 
Yet  who  moderate  in  all  things 

And  temperate  we  see  ; 
And  such  are  good  fellows 

Wherever  they  be. 

I  sing  of  good  fellows 
Who  hold  to  their  word, 

Who  are  true  as  the  sabre, 
And  fast  as  the  cord; 


30 


SKETCH-BOOK   OF   ME;    MEISTER   KARL. 


Who  think  what  they  speak, 

Speak  not  all  that  they  think, 
And  will  stare  at  the  Devil 

Or  Death,  till  he  wink  ; 
Who  from  lying  or  trembling 

Or  shifting  are  free  ; 
And  such  are  good  fellows, 

Wherever  they  be. 

I  sing  of  good  fellows  : 

Kind-hearted  are  they; 
Not  spiteful  or  cruel, 

Or  wounding  "  in  play  ;" 
But,  regarding  the  feelings 

Of  all  as  their  own, 
Ne'er  draw  from  the  soul-chords 

A  dissonant  tone; 
Who  are  gentle  and  courteous, 

While  gallant  and  free; 
And  such  are  good  fellows, 

Wherever  they  be. 

I  sing  of  good  fellows : 
GOD  send  us  some  more  ! 


The  Earth  hath  not  many, 

Though  Heaven  hath  store; 
Stout-hearted  companions, 

Well  buckled  in  pride, 
Who  flinch  at  no  trifles, 

Whatever  betide  ; 
Who  'twixt  honour  and  goodnes 

No  difference  can  see; 
And  such  are  good  fellows, 

Wherever  they  be. 


I  sing  of  good  fellows : 

Ohj  could  there  be  found 
A  land  of  delight, 

Where  good  fellows  abound; 
A  gentleman's  heaven 

Below  or  above, 
And  governed  by  Courtesy, 

Honour  and  Love ; 
To  Elysium  or  Eden 

I  never  would  flee, 
But  the  Land  of  Good  Fellows, 

Wherever  it  be. 


CHAPTER   THE   FIFTH. 


IN  WHICH  THE  AUTHOR  DISCOURSES  WILDLY  OF  LIKES,  DIS 
LIKES,  LADIES,  ALLEGORIES,  METAPHYSICS,  AND  OLD  GEN 
TLEMEN;  IN  WHICH,  LAYING  ASIDE  THE  PEN,  HE  MOUNTETH 
THE  TABLE  AND  LECTURETH. 

ALLAH!  IL  ALLAH!  Bismillah,  Caftan,  Kibob  al  Squibob, 
Salaam  Aleikoom ! — Go  it,  in  the  name  of  the  Prophet !  Has 
san  Oglou  is  on,  Hassan  Oglou  is  on,  the  infidel  dies  in  the  breath 
of  his  nostrils.  My  steam  is  up,  and  I  am  down  upon  the  Giaours 
and  children  of  Satanai  like  a  thousand  of  brick.  Terror  spreads 
majestically  around  me,  like  the  roar  of  a  lion  over  the  darken 
ing  desert ! 

ALLAH  !  IL  ALLAH  ! — In  the  name  of  the  Prophet ! — figs  ! 
For  once  I  have  sharpened  up  my  sabre,  poisoned  its  sdge,  and 
put  rusty  copper  slugs  in  my  pistols.  Hurrah  !  en  avant  I  Brim 
stone,  aquafortis,  and  red  pepper !  The  Berserker  fit  is  on  me. 


THE    AUTHOR    LECTURETH.  31 

I  am  more  spiteful  than  an  old  wild-cat,  and  a  tan-yard  grin  shall 
be  the  mildest  glance  I'll  wear.  Hoo-oo-oui !  Clear  the  track  ! 
fa  na  balla! 

My  Friends  :  I  have  determined  to  lecture  you  to-day  on  the 
persons  that  I  hate.  The  thermometer  is  at  103°  Fahrenheit  in 
the  shade,  with  indications  of  a  speedy  rise.  Flocks  of  flies  and 
myriads  of  mosquitos  are  dancing  lovingly  around.  My  gold 
pen  has  just  spun  out  of  the  window  into  a  crowd !  The  one  I 
am  using  is  VILE.  Yes — "things  are  working!" 

I  HATE,  I  HATE — my  friends,  I  hate  essentially  a  man  of  that 
kind  known  in  French  as  a  "fat."  A  pudding-brained  piece  of 
humanity  living  only  for  his  own  sweet  self,  utterly  unconscious 
of  the  fact  that  other  hearts,  better  and  gentler  than  his  own,  are 
beating  around,  yet  whose  vanity  is  not  without  a  certain  n'diveti 
which  would  be  amusing  or  half-attractive,  were  it  not  for  his 
utter  impregnability  to  the  true,  spirit  of  noble  thoughts  and 
deeds  of  high  emprise.  Such  a  man  gets  comfortably  through 
life,  though  all  the  higher  sources  of  pleasure  are  closed  to  him. 
He  is  fortunate  with  the  women,  for,  as  La  Bruyere  remarks, 
women  like  men  of  this  description,  because  they  take  care  of 
themselves  !  He  is  not  vain  of  his  conquests,  because  he  con 
siders  them  as  naturally  his  due  as  his  salary  or  rents.  He  thinks 
over  them,  without  thinking  much  about  them,  and  without  the 
slightest  spark  of  gratitude  to  any  woman  for  giving  him  her 
heart.  For  verily,  I  tell  you,  friends,  that  Pity  may  be  allied  to 
Love,  but  Gratitude  is  an  essential  part  thereof.  A  man  may 
have  had  his  scores  or  hundreds  of  bonnes  fortunes ;  he  may 
have  quarrelled  with,  or  run  away  from,  or  jilted,  or  have  been 
jilted  by  them  all ;  but  if  he  has  one  single  spark  of  high-toned 
gentleness  or  cavalier  feeling  in  him,  he  will  never  recall  a  single 
lady-love  without  a  sincere  thrill  of  gratitude  for  the  early  gift 
of  her  heart. 

I  HATE,  I  HATE — yes,  my  friends,  I  hate  with  a  crimson-plush 
hatred  of  twenty-four  carats  and  fifth-proof,  those  persons  who, 
without  a  tinge  of  education  or  accomplishment,  and  lacking  in 
refinement,  obstinately  revile  the  noblesse  of  society  for  not  giving 
them  a  place  in  their  ranks;  and,  blindly  ignoring  or  stupidly 
making  but  very  little  account  of  these  all-important  attributes, 
resolve  at  every  risk  to  push  onward  and  upward;  supposing,  for 
sooth,  with  a  second-rate  fool's  knowledge  of  the  world,  that  in 


32  SKETCH-BOOK    OF.  ME,    MEISTER    KARL. 

every  salon  the  staple  of  conversation  consists  of  trivialities,  per 
sonalities,  and  scandal !  On  they  go,  ever  mumbling  to  them 
selves,  "Are  we  not  as  good  as  anybody?"  "Free  and  equal  by 
birth !"  and  similar  platitudes.  They  stop  before  a  statue  to  talk 
of  Mrs.  Grundy,  and,  having  seen  it,  think  that  they  know  as 
much  thereof  as  the  artist  who  created  it.  They  presume  well-edu 
cated  persons  to  be  exceptions  to  the  general  rule — to  be  merely 
occasional  moral  curiosities,  more  wonderful  than  useful.  Children 
of  Eblis !  may  the  black  wind  of  the  desert  blow  ye  all  from  be 
fore  my  path  into  Vam pyre-Land ;  and  may  the  burning  belt  of 
an  envenomed  malediction  pin  you  by  the  skirts  to  the  red  gate 
of  the  House  of  Wrath,  there  to  remain  till  a  week  after  never, 
when  dinner  has  been  forgotten,  and  consequently  no  crumb  left ! 
Be  ye  Anathema  Maranatha  in  secula  scculonim!  i 

I  HATE,  I  HATE — worse  than  salt  in  my  coffee  do  I  hate  a  lady 
who  sustains  the  reputation  of  being  sarcastic,  less  by  wit  than  by 
rudeness.  Still  more  do  I  hate  her,  when,  having  at  last  met 
with  a  vigorous  and  unexpected  repulse * 

Pretty  talk  this,  I  must  say !  Pretty  goings-on  these !  Pretty 
language  this,  to  my  fellow-beings !  What,  I- — Karl — railing  at, 
abusing,  and  reviling  people  with  all  the  villainous  vituperation 
of  an  old  polemic  or  a  furious  cabman!  I  hate,  do  I?  And 
pray,  worthy  Meister,  who,  in  the  name  of  Herr  Urian,  gave  thee 
leave  to  hate  ?  Show  your  ticket !  Pasquin  and  Marforio,  what 
a  man !  And  to  make  confusion  worse  confounded,  thou — Karl 
— wert — beginning — to — ;hate — a  lady  !  !  !  I 

Now  during  the  interval  above  noted  there  sprung  up  a  cool 
breeze,  and  John  brought  me  something  with  a  straw  in  it.  And 
the  imperial  cramoisi  vengeance  of  the  downward-careering  and 
madly-murdering  Grand  Turk  Tchassan  Oglou,  Esquire,  sweetly 
and  mellifluously  melted  into  the  gentle  Norman  Folko  de  Mont- 
faucon  vein,  in  which  may  I  live  and  die !  JVow,  I  feel  as  ami 
able  as  Longfellow's  prose — as  trim  as  Willis's  Letters. 

Enough  of  thyself — Basta — proceed ! 


I  LIKE — (ah,  here  we  have  it !) — I  like  to  recall  a 
lady  acquaintance;  par  exemple,  such  a  one  as  I  made  yesterday 
evening.  Made,  I  say,  for  though  we  have  known  each  other  for 
a  long  time,  it  was  but  yesterday  that  I  understood  her.  Amiyos 


THE   AUTHOR   LECTURETH.  33 

— friends !  How  often  it  happens  that  in  this  world  of  disguises 
we  walk  among  angels  and  know  them  not,  till  some  chance  word 
or  sign  throws  open  the  whole  spiritual  Freemasonry  of  our  souls. 
Oh,  blessings  on  those  looks  and  tones 


which  dart 


An  instant  sunshine  through  the  heart  I" 

Blessings  on  the  dimly-glowing  twilight  hours  when  they  took 
place!  Blessings  on  the  perfumed  memories  of  the  time  and 
place !  Blessings  on  all  things  and  everybody,  from  the  hyssop 
which  groweth  on  the  wall  to  the  cedar  which  shingleth  the  top 
most  roof  of  lofty  palaces !  Blessings  on  you  and  yours ! 

"  And  thus  spake  he  : 

It  was  an  hundred  years  ago, 

I  tell  the  tale  as  it  was  told  to  me, 

Many  are  going  and  many  will  go, 

But  they  for  evermore  passed  on : 

An  hundred  years  ago. 

Many  are  going— many  will  go  ; 

But  whither,  oh  whither,  who  shall  know  ?" 

Crede  experto  Roberto  !  And  the  ladye  saide  to  the  graye  Friar, 
(< Dieu  vous  garde!" 

Reader,  are  you  giddy  ?  Does  your  head  swim  ?  .  Do  you  know 
where  you  are  ?  Go  gently  over  the  stones !  In  the  last  few 
sentences,  owing  to  the  etherealizing  nature  of  the  souvenir  of 
that  young  lady,  we  have  been  lifted  or  elevated  from  the  land 
of  Thought  into  that  of  pure  Feeling,  or  ABSTRACT  SENTIMENT. 
We  have  risen  from  Ideas  to  the  Ideal,  and  have  altogether 
quitted  Common  Sense  for  Inspiration,  and  Roast  Beef  for  Am 
brosia.  We  are  in  the  third  sphere  of  heat  and  dryness,  whose 
Lord  is  Arael  of  the  Sephiroth !  Of  course  it  is  now  immaterial 
whether  I  write  English  or  Russian;  of  but  little  importance 
whether  you  comprehend  me,  and  not  the  slightest  consequence 
whether  I  comprehend  myself.  Let  me  therefore,  while  in  the 
vein,  shoot  for  a  while  like  a  fiery  rocket  transcendentally  upward, 
never  heeding  though  I  should  in  time  dart  dcscendentally  down 
ward,  like  unto  the  stick !  And  now,  while  thus  inspired,  per 
mit  me  to  mention  to  those  who,  like  myself,  have  been  unable 
to  fathom  the  drift,  meaning,  or  object  of  this  lecture  or  chapter, 
that  it  is  in  reality  an  allegory ! 

Yes,  an  Allegory.  0  Regnant!  reader  my  friend,  if  thou 
art  not  a  dweller  in  that  land  of  spirits  known  to  theosophical 


34  SKETCH-BOOK   OF   ME,   MEISTER   KARL. 

Demiurgists  as  Fiddler's  Green,  to  little  purpose  have  I  mata- 
grabolized  this  chapter,  if  thou  hast  not  therein  detected  divers 
mirifical  mysteries,  quintuply  titillating  thy  psychological  auri 
cular! — mysteries  which  smack  more  richly  than  strawberry 
juleps  or  old  Mocha ! — mysteries  equal  to  ripe  kisses  at  the  con 
clusion  of  a  break-down  Polka,  a  tearing  Schottisch,  or  a  d table 
of  a  deux  temps  embalmed  in  Bouquet  de  Caroline,  and  conse 
crated  by  white  kids  and  camellias ; — mysteries  elaborated  from 
all  the  combined  and  collectively-conglutinated  wisdom  of  Hermes 
Trismegistus,  Jacob  Behmen,  Basilides,  Bardesanes,  Valentinus, 
and  George  Sand,  not  forgetting  the  venerable  chief  of  this  school, 
known  in  Germany  as  Sir  Urian,  or  Der  Tciifel! — mysteries 
dimly  touched  upon  in  Campanclla,  Thomas  Moras,  Telesius, 
Fourier,  Cabet,  Lady  Agnes  Bury,  and  the  girl  in  the  red  cap. 

Also — who  smoked  in  the  omnibus  ?  Who  struck  Billy  Pat 
terson  ?  "Who  wore  the  white  hat,  or  the  claret-coloured  coat  ? 
Who  throw  dat  last  brick?  Who  was  the  Man  in  the  Iron 
Mask,  or  the  unknown  Student  of  Bohemia  ?  Who  first  ate  an 
oyster?  Who  wrote  the  Book  De  Tribus  Impostor  ibus,  if  Bern- 
hardus  Ochinus  did  not  ?  Or  did  anybody  ever  write  it  at  all  ? 

Yet  all  of  these  questions,  including  much  more  important 
matters',  are  answered  in  this  chapter,  albeit  as  through  a  glass 
darkly,  and  in  a  manner  which  is  but  very  little  more  difficult 
to  comprehend  than  the  "  Mystcrium  Magnum."  They  are  here. 

Lanner's  Ankunft,  the  Concert  Polka,  and  Yosef  Yung'l's 
"  Sounds  from  Home".  Laplace's  Mecanique  Celeste,  "The 
Celestial  Vision,"  and  LA  BELLE  DES  BELLES.  Ulpian,  Fearne 
on  Remainders,  and  Fleta.  St.  Rosalie  and  Moss-roses.  Mile. 
Augusta  and  St.  Augustine.  The  moral  of  all  which  is,  that 
man  is  to  pursue  his  own  true  and  substantial  happiness,  or 
strive  not  after  mere  simulacra,  eidolas,  or  phantoms;  ergo,  fear 
GOD  and  honour  thy  lady-love,  putting  the  greater  first,  and  the  last, 
not  least,  as  the  French  Troubadour  and  gallant  gentleman  did, 
when  he  inscribed  on  his  shield,  "Notre  Dame  et  ma  Dame!" 

I  LIKE — By-the-way,  reader,  talking  of  likes,  did  you  ever 
meet  before  with  a  person  with  a  disposition  so  much  like  your 
own?  It  has  been  evident  from  the  beginning,  "  There  are  two 
of  us"  as  THE  LITTLE  MASTER  said  to  his  horns.  Nevertheless, 
it  is  barely  possible  that  we  may  not  agree. 

There  be  two  varieties  of  discriminating  readers  ! 


THE    AUTHOR    LECTURETH.  35 

First — Those  who  would  fain  distinguish  between  the  good 
and  the  bad. 

Secondly — Those  who  would  willingly  distinguish  between  the 
real  and  the  sham,  or  between  what  they  like,  and  what  they 
think  had  better  have  been  left  unwritten. 

If  there  be  any  who  pretend  to  belong  to  the  first  class,  and 
also  to  find  fault  with  me,  I  shall  liken  their  piety  unto  the  wings 
of  the  ostrich,  which  serve,  not  to  exalt  him  to  heaven,  but  to 
skim  more  readily  along  the  surface  of  the  earth. 

And  I  intend  taking  such  measures,  that  those  of  the  second 
class  who  condemn  me,  shall  find — like  a  tiger  inveigled  into  a 
trap  by  his  reflection  in  a  mirror — that  they  are  not  only  caught 
themselves,  but  have  cut  their  paws  into  the  bargain! 

Great  words,  if  thou  canst  only  make  them  good ! 

I  LIKE,  par  exemple,  my  friends,  that  bold  and  beautiful 
theory  of  a  German  geologist,  who,  in  a  "grete  l>oke,"  attempted 
to  prove  that  the  pyramids  of  Egypt  were  enormous  crystals  or 
natural  excrescences  of  the  earth.  Not  so  absurd  after  all,  if  we 
start  with  Goethe's  Time-spirit  speech  as  the  secret  of  Nature ! 

"  In  Being's  flood — in  Action's  storm, 
I  work  and  weave — above — beneath  ! 

Work  and  weave 

In  endless  motion, 

Birth  and  Death, 

And  infinite  ocean, 

A  seizing  and  giving 

The  Fire  of  the  Living : 
'Tis  thus  at  the  roaring  loom  of  Time  I  ply, 
And  weave  for  GOD  the  garment  thou  seest  him  by !" 

For  the  spirit,  moving  in  curves  and  infinitely  varied  tones 
among  the  many-hued  elements,  brought  forth  in  time  and  place 
crystals,  winds,  trees,  fishes,  clouds,  paving-stones,  and  raisins. 
And  the  spirit  took  up  one  new  element — that  of  humanity — 
and  moved  in  the  brains  and  arms  of  MAN  as  Thought  and  Force, 
and  behold,  new  crystals,  winds,  clouds,  fishes,  and  paving-stones 
were  developed  or  generated.  Ha,  Beau  Sire  !  Ha,  Belle  Gorye  ! 
Lovest  thou  Oken  and  Schelling,  and  a  Natur- Philosophic  ? 

Hence,  thou  accursed  phantom — or  rather  thou  Hell-Hebe 
with  a  poisoned  opium-chalice  of  Pantheistic  philosophy  and 
Teutonic  metaphysics !  Away  to  thine  infernal  Nifelheim  or 
Cloud-Goblin-Land !  Sink  who  may  in  its  be-devilled  swamps,  I 

4 


36 


SKETCH-BOOK    OF    ME,    MEISTER    KARL. 


at  least  will  be  clean  !  There  is  blood  on  thy  hand,  and  a  Death- 
in-Hell  behind  thy  mask.  I  fear  and  hate  thee!  "Abi  a  me 
mala  bestiaqusemeperdidisti!"  as  Agrippa  said  to  his  devil-dog 
APAGE ! 

Has  she  passed  away— -gone?  No!  the  fascinatress  is  still 
there  by  me— white,  witch-like,  and  beautiful  in  the  moon-rays. 
Ai — ail  0  loveliness  unutterable !  0  agony  and  despair ! 

"  Bright,  beautiful  Devil, 

Pass — pass  from  me  now  ! 
For  the  damp  dew  of  Death 

Gathers  thick  on  my  brow  ! 
And  bind  up  thy  bosom, 

Nor  beauties  disclose, 
More  dazzliugly  white 

Than  the  wreath-drifted  snows. 
And  away  with  thy  kisses; 

My  heart  waxes  sick, 
As  thy  red  lips  like  worms 

Travel  over  my  cheek ! 

"Ha!  press  mo  no  more  with 

That  passionless  hand ! 
'Tis  whiter  than  milk,  or 

The  foam  on  the  strand  ; 
'Tis  softer  than  down,  or 

The  silken-leafed  flower; 
But  colder  than  ice  thrills 

Each  touch  at  this  hour  ; 
Like  the  finger  of  DEATH, 

From  cerements  unrolled, 
Thy  hand  on  my  heart  falls 

Dull,  clammy,  and  cold. 

"Now  mountain  and  valley, 

Frith,  forest,  and  river, 
Are  mingling  with  shadows — 

Are  lost  to  me  ever ! 
The  sunlight  is  fading, 

Small  birds  seek  their  nest, 
And  happy  souls,  flower-like, 

Sink  sinless  to  rest. 
But  7 — 'tis  no  matter; 

Kiss,  kiss  cheek  and  chin, 
Kiss — kiss — thou  hast  won  me, 

Bright,  beautiful  Sin !" 

RABELAIS  AND  DIEDRICII  KNICKERBOCKER!  what  a  night 
mare  I've  had!     What  a  fearful  dream!    I  thought — pah?  it 


THE    AUTHOR    LECTURETH.  37 

sickens  me ! — that  I  was  turning  Transcendentalist,  and  that  the 
fiend  of  German  metaphysics,  disguised  as  a  black-eyed  Sophia, 
had  grahbed  my  soul!  Ergo  bibamus!  and  oh,  gentlemen,  if  you 
lo^e  me,  give  me  a  cigar,  (au  diable  with  the  meerschaum  now !) 
and  talk  about  the  Opera. 

(SINGS     CHEERILY.) 

"  Oh,  Life,  my  dear,  at  best  or  worst, 

Is  but  a  fancy-ball ; 
Its  greatest  joy  a  wild  galop, 

Where  madness  governs  all ! 
And  should  they  turn  its  gas-light  off, 

And  never  leave  a  spark, 
Still  I'd  find  my  way  to  Heaven — or 

Thy  lips,  love,  in  the  dark  ! 

"  Tol  de  rol — tol  de  rol ! — demme  rol  de  rido  ! 

V  Hast  thou  ever  been  in  Paris  ? 

Dost  thou  know  the  Upper  Ten  ? 
Canst  thou  flirt  it  with  the  ladies, 

And  champagne  it  with  the  men  ? 
Art  thou  posted  up  on  Polkas  ? 
Wilt  thou" 

All  right  now,  my  friends  :  pardon  the  digression  ! 

I  LIKE — that  is  to  say,  I  like  to  travel  about  the  world  and  see, 
feel,  and  experience  all  that  there  is  therein  most  quiet  or  strange, 
usual  or  marvellous,  bizarre  or  beautiful.  Chiefly  do  I  like  the 
hum  of  new  cities,  and  the  constant  intercourse  with  every  variety 
of  human  nature ;  the  commercial  traveller  and  the  diplomatist, 
the  officer  and  the  artist,  the  noble  and  the  peasant,  the  delicate 
countess,  the  fat  old  dowager,  and  the  beautiful,  sparkling  gri- 
sette.  Chiefly  do  I  like  the  society  of  the  stout,  solid,  grave, 
respectable,  middle-aged  citizens,  who  hold  their  own,  and  have 
in  their  time  known  the  world,  with  its  manifold  changes  and 
troubles ;  men  who  have  had  losses.  My  friends,  there  is  an  in 
finite  vein  of  rich,  glorious  romance  in  the  stout  old  bourgeoisie 
and  retired  citizens,  of  which  I  will  venture  to  say  you  have  not 
the  faintest  inkling.  Many  a  man  among  them  has  in  his  foam 
ing,  rushing  youth  experienced  emotions,  seen  adventures,  of 
which  no  one  now  dreams,  and  which,  closely  bottled  up  in  the 
demijohn  of  memory,  now  influence  him  in  sober,  profitable 
reflections,  such  as  you,  mes  gaillards — my  merry  blades — will 
not  have  the  privilege  of  enjoying  for  many  a  long  year  to  come. 


38  SKETCH-BOOK    OF    ME,    MEISTER    KARL. 

The  spiritual  majority — take  my  word  and  that  of  the  Suabiana 
for  it — is  at  forty !  But  two  nights  since  I  spoke  with  such  an 
one,  with  beard  of  formal  cut,  and  fair  round  belly  with  good 
capon  lined,  and  said  unto  myself,  "  That  man  has  in  his  time 
written  poetry,  and  since  done  better  tkuiys."  To  you,  young 
ladies  and  gentlemen,  who  are  still  incapable  of  comprehending 
the  romance  of  respectability  latent  in  your  worthy  papas  and 
uncles — be  they  merchant-princes,  merchant-packers,  or  merchant- 
pedlars — I  would  say,  that  a  faint  gleam  thereof  may  be  disco 
vered  in  attentively  studying  the  paintings  of  Rembrandt :  who, 
by  far  the  most  romantic  and  dreamy  of  artists,  consequently 
comprehended  better  than  any  man  the  true  aristocracy  and  glory 
of  the  bourgeoisie.  Those  things,  0  dearly  beloved,  Hike — and 
shall  like,  now  and  ever,  till  death  do  us  part !  ADIEU  ! 


CHAPTER  THE  SIXTH. 

THE   OLD   BOOK,  OR   THE   LITTLE   PROPHET  OF  BOEMISCHBRODA. 

ONE  morning,  while  rambling  with  some  friends  on  the  Pont 
Neuf,  the  attention  of  Meister  Karl  was  drawn  to  a  curious  pile 
of  ancient  works  on  one  of  the  numerous  second-hand  bookstands 
which  there  abound,  and  which  were  favourably  mentioned  by 
Voltaire.  The  proprietor  was  an  old  friend  of  the  Wolf,  and 
smilingly  assured  him  in  a  torrent  of  broken  English  that  he  had 
just  received  a  terrible  number  of  interesting  works  of  great  an 
tiquity.  "Ah  sare,  Meestare  Short,  I  'ave  got  one  such  col-lec 
tion  of  bookes,  zat  you  will  be  fri-ten-ed !  Every  sing  ees  new, 
and  zey  air  all  ve-ry  old!  Ah,  messieurs — soche  dam  bookes 
you  nevare  did  see.  Zere  is  politique,  theologie,  facetiae,  and  all 
ze  ees.  Zere  is  one  bundil  which  was  stolen  from  the  Enfer  of 
the  Bibliotheque  Roy — Nat — I  mean  Imperiale,  ze  oder  day,  and 
which  you  shall  buy — by  Gar,  you  shall  buy  whethare  you  will  or 
not — for  almost  not-ting!" 

There  was  no  resisting  such  an  appeal,  and  we  accordingly 
proceeded  to  examine  the  praised  assortment.  Suddenly  the 
Count  d'Egerlyn  exclaimed — 

"Here  is  an  eccentric  little  work  which  I  read  some  twenty 


THE   LITTLE   PROPHET   OF   BOEHMISCHBRODA.  39 

years  ago,  and,  strangely  enough,  in  this  very  copy.  As  it  is 
really  curious,  I  will  read  it  aloud  to  you  this  afternoon.  But 
how  odd  that  I  should  find  it  here  I" 

" There  is  something,"  replied  Yon  Schwartz,  "very  grateful 
in  thus  meeting  with  relics  of  our  by-gone  days.  It  is  like  un 
expectedly  finding  an  old  friend  in  some  distant  country,  and 
seems  a  special  admonition  to  cherish  the  memory  of  scenes  and 
times  which  we  should  never  forget." 

The  work  was  of  course  purchased,  and  not  only  read,  but  also 
translated,  as  appears  by  the  following  chapters.  Some  one  once 
told  me  the  name  of  its  author,  but  I  have  forgotten  it,  and  it 
does  not  occur  in  Brunet  or  Kaisar.  All  that  I  know  of  it  is 
that  it  was  written  in  1757. 


THE  LITTLE  PROPHET  OF  BOEHMISCHBRODA. 

(FROM  THE  FRENCH.) 

HERE  are  written  the  thirteen  chapters  of  the  prophecy  of  GABRIEL  JOHANNES 
NEPOMUCENUS  FRANCISCUS  DE  PAULA  WALDSTORCH,  known  as  WALD- 
STORCHEL,  native  of  Boehmischbroda,  in  Bohemia,  Philosoph.  et  Theolog. 
Moral.  Studio  in  Colleg.  Mai.  R.  R.,  P.  P.,  Societ.  Jes.,  son  of  a  discreet  and 
honourable  person,  EUSTACHIUS  JOSEPHUS  WOLFGANGUS  WALDSTORCH,  master- 
maker  of  musical  instruments,  and  dealer  in  violins,  dwelling  in  the  Juden- 
gasse  of  the  Alt  Stadt  in  Prague,  near  the  Cannes,  at  the  sign  of  the  red  violin  ; 
and  he  hath  written  them  with  his  hand,  and  he  hath  called  them  his  vision. 

CANTICUM  CYGNI  BOIIEMICL 

CHAPTER   FIRST. 
THE    THREE    MINUETS. 

AND  I  was  in  my  garret,  which  I  call  my  chamber,  and  it  was 
cold,  and  I  had  no  fire  in  my  stove,  for  wood  was  dear. 

And  I  was  wrapped  in  my  cloak,  which  was  once  blue,  and  is 
now  become  white,  since  it  hath  been  much  worn. 

And  I  practised  on  my  violin  to  warm  my  fingers,  and  I  fore 
saw  that  the  carnival  of  the  coming  year  would  be  long. 

And  the  Demon  of  Ambition  whispered  in  my  soul,  and  I  said 
to  myself — 

"Come,  let  us  compose  minuets  for  the  Redoubt  of  Prague; 
let  my  glory  fly  from  mouth  to  mouth,  and  let  it  be  known 
throughout  the  world  and  all  over  Bohemia. 

4* 


40  SKETCH-BOOK   OP   ME,    MEISTER   KARL. 

"And  let  the  world  point  me  out,  terming  me  the  Composer 
of  Minuets,  xar'  s^nyr^,  which  is  to  say,  par  excellence. 

11  And  let  the  beauty  of  my  minuets  be  everywhere  spoken  of, 
both  by  those  who  shall  dance  and  those  who  shall  play  them, 
and  let  them  be  performed  during  the  fair  of  the  Jubilate  at 
Leipsic,  in  all  the  taverns,  and  let  the  world  exclaim — 

"  l  Behold  the  beautiful  minuets  of  the  Carnival  of  Prague;  be 
hold  the  minuets  of  Gabriel  Johannes  Nepomucenus  Franciscus 
de  Paula  Waldstorch,  student  of  philosophy;  behold  the  minuets 
of  the  GREAT  COMPOSER  !  Behold  them !' " 

And  I  abandoned  myself  to  all  the  chimeras  of  pride,  and  I 
intoxicated  myself  with  the  vapour  of  vanity,  and  cocked  my 
hat. 

And  I  folded  my  arms  and  marched  with  dignity  up  and  down 
the  garret,  which  I  call  my  chamber,  and  said  in  the  drunken 
ness  of  my  ambitious  projects — 

"  How  happy  will  my  father  be  to  have  an  illustrious  son ! 
My  mother  will  bless  the  belly  which  hath  borne  me,  and  the 
breasts  which  gave  me  suck  S" 

And  I  continued  to  delight  myself  in  the  bewilderment  of  my 
ideas,  and  held  up  my  head,  which  by  nature  is  not  remarkably 
high. 

And  I  was  heated  by  ambition,  although  there  was  no  wood 
in  the  stove,  and  I  said — 

"  How  admirable  is  it  to  have  an  elevated  soul,  and  what  great 
things  are  developed  by  the  love  of  glory!" 

And  I  put  on  my  cloak,  which  was  once  blue,  and  is  now 
white,  since  it  hath  been  much  worn,  and  I  took  my  violin,  and 
I  composed  on  the  spot  three  minuets  in  succession,  and  the  se 
cond  was  in  minor. 

And  I  played  them  upon  the  violin,  and  they  pleased  me  much ; 
and  I  played  them  again,  and  they  pleased  me  more;  and  I  said — 
"But  it's  a  fine  thing  to  be  an  author!" 

CHAPTER   SECOND. 
THE   VOICE. 

AND  suddenly  my  chamber  (which  is  only  a  garret)  was  illu 
minated  with  a  great  light,  although  there  was  only  a  farthing 
candle  upon  the  table. 

(For  I  burn  a  candle  when  I  study  music,  for  then  I  am  gay; 


THE   LITTLE    PROPHET    OF   EOEHMISCIIBRODA.  41 

And  I  burn  cheap  oil  when  I  study  philosophy,  for  then  I  am 
sad.) 

And  I  heard  a  voice  as  of  one  roaring  with  laughter,  and  the 
laugh  was  louder  than  the  sound  of  my  violin. 

And  I  was  irritated  at  being  mocked,  (for  I  am  naturally  averse 
to  mockery.) 

And  the  voice,  which  I  did  not  see,  said  to  me — • 

"Be  angry  no  longer,  for  I  laugh  at  and  mock  thy  rage;  and 
thou  art  naturally  averse  to  mockery. 

"  Lay  aside  thy  wrath  immediately,  and  renounce  thy  glorious 
projects,  for  I  have  annihilated  them,  because  they  are  contrary 
to  mine. 

"And  another  shall  compose  minuets  for  the  Carnival  of 
Prague,  and  thine  will  not  be  played  at  the  Fair  of  Leipsic,  for 
thou  wilt  not  have  written  them ! 

"For  I  have  chosen  and  elected  thee  from  among  thy  com 
panions  to  announce  hard  truths  to  a  frivolous  and  stiff-necked 
people,  who  will  mock  thee,  (although  thou  art  naturally  averse 
to  mockery,)  because  they  are  indocile  and  trifling,  and  they  will 
not  believe  in  thee,  because  thou  wilt  have  spoken  the  truth. 

"And  I  have  chosen  thee  for  that,  because  I  do  what  seems 
good  to  me,  and  give  no  account  of  it  to  anybody. 

"And  thou  wilt  not  have  composed  the  minuets,  for  it  is  / 
who  tell  thee  so." 

CHAPTER   THIRD. 
THE   PUPPETS. 

AND  a  hand  seized  me  by  the  queue  of  my  hair,  and  I  felt 
myself  transported  through  the  air,  and  I  was  thus  carried  from 
Thursday  to  Friday,  wrapped  all  the  while  in  my  cloak,  which 
was  once  blue,  and  is  now  white,  since  it  is  much  worn. 

And  I  arrived  in  a  city  of  which  I  had  never  before  heard 
speak  even  to  that  day;  and  its  name  was  PARIS;  and  I  saw 
that  it  was  very  great  and  very  dirty. 

And  it  was  in  the  evening,  about  the  fifth  hour  of  the  day, 
that  I  found  myself  in  an  exhibition-room,  where  crowds  were 
entering. 

And  my  heart  throbbed  with  joy,  for  I  love  fine  shows, 
and,  although  not  rich,  do  not  mind  the  expense  when  I  go  to  see 
them. 


42  SKETCH-BOOK    OF    ME,    MEISTER    KARL. 

And  I  said  to  myself,  (for  I  love  to  talk  to  myself  when  I  have 
time — ) 

"  Without  doubt  they  will  in  this  place  play  Tamerlane  and 
Bajazet,  with  great  puppets ;"  for  I  found  the  hall  too  splendid 
for  a  mere  Punchinello  show. 

And  I  heard  the  tuning  of  violins,  and  I  said — "  Doubtless 
they  will  have  the  serenade,  and  make  the  little  puppets  dance, 
when  the  great  ones  have  said  their  say." 

For  I  found  the  theatre  quite  large  enough  for  that ;  and  also 
that  there  would  .be  some  difficulty  in  making  the  puppets  go  in 
and  out  between  the  scenes,  which  were  very  close  together;  and 
also  that  there  was  plenty  of  room  on  the  stage  to  dance  at  least 
six  puppets,  which  would  be  a  very  fine  sight. 

And  although  I  had  seen  many  puppet-shows  in  my  life,  never 
had  I  beheld  one  like  this,  for  the  decorations  were  superb,  and  the 
boxes  richly  gilt ;  every  thing  in  great  taste  and  remarkably  clean. 

And  in  all  the  travelling  theatres  of  the  German  comedy  I  had 
never  seen  any  thing  which  could  approach  it,  although  they  have 
men  to  act  in  them,  and  not  puppets. 

But,  although  the  decorations  which  we  have  are  brighter  than 
these,  (for  they  are  varnished  with  varnish  and  without  regard  to 
expense,)  I  found  that  these  would  have  been  much  finer  than 
ours,  had  they  been  varnished  in  the  same  manner. 

CHAPTER   FOURTH. 
THE     WOOD-CUTTER. 

AND  while  I  thus  spoke  to  myself,  (for  I  love  to  speak  to  my 
self  when  I  have  time,)  I  found  that  the  orchestra  had  begun 
playing,  before  I  was  aware,  and  that  they  played  something  which 
they  called  an  overture. 

And  I  saw  a  man  who  held  a  stick,  and  I  supposed  that  it  was 
to  chastise  the  bad  violinists,  many  of  whom  I  heard  among  the 
good  players,  (the  latter  being  few  in  number.) 

And  he  made  a  noise  as  if  he  were  splitting  wood,  and  I  was 
astonished  that  he  did  not  dislocate  his  shoulder,  and  the  strength 
of  his  arm  terrified  me. 

And  I  reflected,  (for  I  love  to  reflect  when  I  have  time,)  and  I 
said  to  myself — 

"  Oh,  how  talents  are  misplaced  in  this  world !  and  yet  how 
genius  will  still  show  itself,  put  it  where  you  will!" 


THE   LITTLE   PROPHET    OF   BOEIIMISCIIBRODA.  43 

And  I  said — "  Had  this  man  been  born  in  the  house  of  my 
father,  which  is  a  quarter  of  a  league  distant  from  the  forest  of 
Boehmischbroda  in  Bohemia,  he  would  earn  as  much  as  thirty 
pence  a  day;  his  family  would  be  wealthy  and  honoured,  and  his 
children  would  live  in  abundance. 

"  And  the  world  would  say — ( Behold  the  wood-cutter  of  Boeh 
mischbroda!  behold  him!'  But  his  talent,  I  dare  say,  avails 
him  very  little  in  this  shop,  where  he  can  hardly  earn  bread  to 
eat  and  water  to  drink/' 

And  I  heard  that  this  was  called  beating  time;  but  although  it 
was  very  powerfully  beaten,  the  musicians  did  not  play  together. 

And  I  began  to  sigh  for  the  serenades  which  we,  the  students 
of  the  Jesuits,  used  to  perform  at  night  in  the  streets  of  Prague, 
for  we  kept  time,  although  we  had  no  stick. 

And  the  curtain  rose,  and  I  saw  cords  at  the  bottom  of  the 
theatre  which  were  cast  out. 

And  I  said  to  myself — "  Certainly  they  will  be  attached  to  the 
head  of  Tamerlane,  and  there  will  be  a  great  procession  of  pup 
pets  after  him,  (for  there  were  many  cords,)  and  they  will  open 
the  scene  in  this  manner,  and  the  sight  will  be  magnificent."  * 

And  I  thought  it  stupid  that  they  had  not  tied  the  cords  to 
the  heads  of  the  puppets  before  raising  the  curtain,  as  we  do, 
for  I  have  a  good  judgment. 

CHAPTER   FIFTH. 
THE   BLACK   EYES. 

NOT  at  all!  And  I  saw  a  shepherd  arrive,  and  the  people 
cried — "  Behold  the  God  of  Song  !  behold  him !"  And  then  I 
knew  that  I  was  in  the  French  Opera. 

And  his  voice  nattered  my  ears,  and  his  plaints  touched  me, 
and  he  expressed  with  art  all  that  he  would;  and  although  he  sang 
slowly  he  did  not  weary  me,  for  he  had  soul  and  taste. 

And  I  saw  his  shepherdess  arrive,  and  she  had  great  black  eyes, 
to  which  she  gave  a  gentle  expression  to  console  him,  as  was 
necessary,  (for  he  told  her  so.) 

And  she  had  a  light  and  brilliant  voice  which  rang  like  silver, 
and  it  was  pure  as  the  gold  which  runs  from  the  furnace,  and  she 
sang  well  songs  which  were  not  well,  and  her  windpipe  gave  shape 
and  form  to  things  which  were  flat. 


44  SKETCH-BOOK   OF   ME,    MEISTEB   KARL. 

And  although  the  music  was  vile  and  poor,  it  did  not  seem  so 
when  she  sang;  and  I  said — "Ah,  thou  deceitful  one  I"  for  she 
was  full  of  art,  and  her  skill  deluded  me. 

And  I  said  to  myself,  (for  I  love  to  speak  to  myself  when  I 
have  time — ) 

"No  doubt  this  shepherd  and  shepherdess  have  enemies,  who 
compel  them  to  sing  in  puppet-show  shops,  in  order  to  spoil  their 
voices  and  injure  their  lungs. " 

For  I  smelt  a  smell  of  oil  and  tallow  which  almost  poisoned 
me,  born  though  I  be  in  the  forests  of  Boehrnischbroda  in 
Bohemia,  where  the  air  is  thick;  although  I  have  made  all  my 
studies  with  the  aid  of  a  lamp  whose  oil  is  not  good,  for  it  is 
only  eight-penny  oil;  and  I  have  studied  to  advantage,  (for  I  am 
learned.) 

And  in  the  sincerity  of  my  heart  I  began  to  curse  the  enemies 
of  the  shepherd  and  shepherdess,  for  their  voice  and  song  pleased 
me,  although  the  music  troubled  me ;  and  I  began  to  pity  their 
unhappy  lot,  and  to  grow  sentimental,  and  continued  to  curse, 
(for  I  am  wicked  when  angry.) 

CHAPTER  SIXTH. 
LA   MAGICIENNE. 

AND  when  my  shepherdess,  whom  I  call  mine  because  she 
pleased  me,  had  consoled  my  shepherd,  whom  I  call  mine  because 
he  gave  me  pleasure,  and  when  they  had  mutually  caressed  each 
other  to  their  hearts'  content,  and  had  nothing  more  to  say,  they 
went  away. 

And  I  saw  a  woman  come,  and  she  took  great  steps,  and  came 
to  the  edge  of  the  stage  and  frowned,  and  I  inferred  that  she  was 
in  a  bad  humour. 

And  she  seemed  to  threaten,  which  irritated  me,  for  I  am  of  a 
quick  disposition,  and  dislike  menaces;  and  one  who  sat  by  me 
said — "  She  means  me;"  and  his  neighbour  said — "No,  she  means  . 
me!" 

And  I  tried  to  imagine  what  reason  she  could  have  for  being 
angry,  for  her  entire  part  was  a  sad  one,  and  I  perceived  that  it 
was  impossible  to  guess ! 

And  she  held  in  her  hand  a  wand,  which  was  mysterious,  (for 
80  the  poet  had  said,)  and  by  means  of  this  wand  she  knew  every 


THE   LITTLE   PROPHET   OP  BOEHMISCHBRODA.  45 

thing,  and  could  do  every  thing,  except  stuff,  which  she  could 
not  do,  although  she  thought  she  could. 

And  I  heard  her  give  horrible  cries,  and  her  veins  swelled, 
and  her  face  became  red  as  Tyrian  purple,  and  her  eyes  stuck 
out  of  her  head,  and  she  frightened  me. 

And  I  thought  that  those  who  sing  at  the  Eagle  of  Saint 
Apollonia  von  Wischerade,  even  when  well  foddered  and  soaked, 
could  never  strive  with  their  lungs  against  the  lungs  of  the  sor 
ceress  ;  and  I  said — 

"  Oh  that  they  were  only  here  to  listen  to  her,  that  they  might 
have  their  pride  lowered !  and  when  we  students  touch  the  hat 
to  them,  they  would  salute  us  more  politely  in  return/' 

And  she  raised  the  dead  by  the  sound  of  her  voice,  although 
she  made  the  living  flee  for  their  lives.  And  I  said  to  myself — 
"No  doubt  that  those  who  are  dead  and  buried  in  this  shop  have 
all  naturally  a  false  ear  for  music. " 

And  an  old  man  came  on  the  stage,  whom  the  woman  with  the 
wand  called  young,  (for  so  the  poet  had  made  him,)  although  he 
was  more  than  sixty  years  old.  And  he  gargled  in  his  throat 
before  all  the  audience,  while  pretending  to  sing. 

And  I  found  that  very  disrespectful;  and  his  gargling  con 
tinued,  and  his  part  was  finished;  and  I  said — "Does  this  man 
then  require  so  much  preparation  in  order  to  sing?  One  would 
do  well  to  say  to  him — '  Speak  thy  part  without  singing,  for  thou 
wouldst  speak  it  well/  "  (for  I  have  good  judgment,  and  can  ad 
vise  well.) 

And  his  gargling  made  me  laugh;  but  when  I  was  about  to 
ridicule  him,  he  affected  me  by  his  action,  and  I  saw  that  he  was 
a  venerable  man,  for  he  was  dignified  and  noble,  and  gesticulated 
as  never  man  gesticulated. 

CHAPTER  SEVENTH. 
LA  CHACONNE. 

AND  I  saw  a  man  who  did  better  than  he,  and  the  audience 
cried:  "LA  CHACONNE!  LA  CHACONNE!"  And  he  did  not 
speak,  and  I  admired  him,  for  he  showed  his  body,  and  his  arms, 
and  his  legs,  on  every  side,  and  he  was  fine-looking;  and  when  he 
turned  round  he  was  still  fine-looking,  and  his  name  was  Dupre. 

And  I  saw  a  peasant  arrive  with  his  company,  and  I  supposed 
that  these  were  musicians  in  disguise,  as  they  evidently  were,  foi 


46  SKETCH-LOOK   OF   ME,    MEISTEE   KARL. 

they  wrote  upon  the  stage  the  air  which  they  played;  and  by 
their  steps  I  counted  the  notes  of  every  measure,  and  the  reckon 
ing  was  just;  and  I  admired  their  dance,  for  I  understand  music; 
and  their  name  was  Lany. 

And  I  saw  dancers  and  leapers  without  number  and  without 
end;  and  they  called  it  a  festival,  although  it  was  none,  for  there 
was  no  joy  there;  and  they  would  not  cease;  and  I  inferred  that 
these  people  were  never  weary  of  jumping,  although  they  had  an 
air  of  weariness,  and  wearied  me  and  the  rest. 

And  their  dances  troubled  the  actors  at  every  instant;  and 
when  they  were  in  the  best  part  of  the  dialogue,  on  came  the 
jumpers,  and  the  actors  were  obliged  to  hurry  into  a  corner  and 
make  room  for  them,  although  the  festival  had  been  gotten  up 
expressly  on  account  of  the  actors,  (for  so  the  poet  had  said;) 
and  when  they  had  any  thing  to  say,  they  were  permitted  to  ad 
vance  and  say  it,  but  always  under  the  condition  of  being  sent 
back  again  into  their  corner  when  they  had  concluded. 

And  I  thought  that  we  do  the  thing  better,  for  our  actors  have 
nothing  in  common  with  the  dancing-girls,  and  always  conclude 
before  the  latter  arrive.  (I  say  what  I  think.) 

And  I  determined  that  the  poet  had  sufficient  reason  for  being 
angry  with  the  dancing-girls,  who  came  to  interrupt  the  conversa 
tion  of  his  actors,  without  assigning  any  reason  for  said  interruption. 

And  I  thought  it  very  good-natured  of  him  to  make  the  actors 
call  the  dancing-girls,  when  they  had  nothing  to  do  with  them ; 
and  although  he  said  that  they  had  something  to  do,  I  believed 
not  a  word  of  it,  for  they  actually  had  nothing  to  do. 

CHAPTER   EIGHTH. 
LE   RECUEIL. 

AND  I  wearied  myself  for  two  hours  and  a  half  listening  to  a 
collection  of  minuets  and  airs  which  they  called  javottes,  and 
others  which  they  termed  rigadoons,  and  tambourins,  and  contre- 
danses,  the  whole  intermingled  with  fragments  of  song  such  as 
we  hear  in  our  vespers,  even  unto  this  day,  with  several  songs, 
the  tunes  of  which  I  have  heard  played  in  the  different  quarters 
of  Prague,  and  particularly  at  the  sign  of  the  White  Cross,  and 
at  that  of  the  Archduke  Joseph. 

And  I  remarked  that  this  was  what  in  France  they  called  an 
opera,  and  I  noted  it  down  in  my  tablets  in  order  to  remember  it. 


THE   LITTLE   PROPHET    OF   BOEHMISCIIBRODA.  47 

CHAPTER   NINTH. 
LA   HAUTE   CONTRE. 

AND  I  was  glad  to  see  the  curtain  fall,  and  said  in  my  heart — 
"Let  me  never  see  thee  raised  again  I" 

And  the  voice  which  was  my  guide  began  to  laugh,  and  I  felt 
that  it  was  laughing  at  me,  which  irritated  me,  for  I  am  natu 
rally  averse  to  mockery. 

And  it  said — "Thou  shalt  not  yet  return  to  the  Redoubt  of 
Prague,  and  thou  shalt  not  yet  return,  for  I  do  not  will  it. 

"  And  thou  shalt  pass  the  night  here  in  writing  what  I  will 
dictate  to  thee,  that  which  is  to  be  announced  to  this  race 
which  I  once  loved,  and  which  is  now  become  odious  to  me  on 
account  of  its  numerous  weaknesses. 

"And  thou  shalt  publish  them,  if  thou  canst  find  a  publisher 
who  will  undertake  it;  for  the  spirit  of  falsehood  hath  seized 
upon  the  printing-offices,  and  truth  is  no  longer  printed  with  ap 
probation  and  privilege." 

And  I  obeyed  the  voice,  because  my  mother  has  often  said  to 
me — "Be  docile."  And  I  said  to  the  voice  which  addressed 
me — "I  submit  to  thy  will;  but  if  thou  hast  pity  on  me,  and  if 
thou  dost  not  desire  to  punish  me  in  the  excess  of  thy  rigour, 

"Only  hinder  them  from  singing  while  I  write,  and  deliver  me 
from  the  fear  of  seeing  that  thing  which  they  call  an  opera  begin 
again :  for  their  songs  have  afflicted  me ;  their  sports  have  troubled 
my  spirit;  their  sadness  is  mawkishness,  and  when  they  are  gay, 
they  weary  me." 

And  the  voice  said  in  its  kindness — "  Calm  thyself,  for  thou 
art  my  son,  and  I  cherished  thee  before  thou  hadst  composed  the 
three  minuets  for  the  carnival  of  Prague,  of  which  the  second  is 
in  minor. 

"And  they  will  sing  no  more,  and  thine  ear  shall  be  in  peace, 
for  they  are  very  weary;  and  the  actors,  and  the  wood-cutter,  and 
the  violinists  of  the  orchestra  have  need  of  repose,  for  the  next 
representation  is  at  hand." 

And  I  judged  that  for  the  benefit  of  the  lungs  it  were  better 
to  blow  a  horn  in  the  forest  of  Boehmischbroda,  from  the  rising 
of  the  sun  even  unto  the  going  down  of  the  same,  than  to  sing 
the  haute  contre  three  times  a  week  in  the  opera-shop. 

5 


48  SKETCH-BOOK   OF   ME,    MEISTER   KARL. 


CHAPTER   TENTH. 
THE    CORNER. 

AND  the  voice  quieted  me,  and  ordered  me  to  sit  in  a  cor 
ner  which  is  called  the  corner  of  the  queen's  side,  since  it  is 
under  the  box  of  the  queen,  even  unto  this  day : 

And  although  very  dark,  was  yet  occupied  by  very  enlightened 
men,  for  there  the  philosophers,  and  wits,  and  the  elect  of  the 
nation  assemble  even  unto  this  day;  and  the  reproved  shall  not 
enter  there,  for  they  are  excluded. 

And  good  and  bad  is  spoken  there;  the  word  and  the  thing. 
And  there  the  word  is  heard  which  breaks  the  heart  of  the  bad 
poet,  and  the  thing  which  terrifies  the  bad  musician. 

And  it  is  never  dull  there,  for  they  listen  but  little  and  speak 
much,  although  the  sentinel  frequently  says — "Messieurs,  aycz 
la  l>onti  de  laisscr  la  voix !"  "Silence,  gentlemen,  if  you 
please !" 

And  they  pay  no  attention  to  the  sentinel,  for  they  love  better 
to  speak  than  listen  to  the  stuff  called  singing. 

And  when  everybody  had  left  the  theatre,  and  many  bad 
things  had  been  said  of  that  which  they  termed  an  opera,  I  drew 
my  tablets  from  my  pocket  and  said  to  the  voice — 

"  Speak,  that  I  may  write  thy  will,  and  that  I  may  announce 
it  to  the  people  whom  thou  callest  light  and  fanciful,  although 
their  songs  are  heavy  and  stupid ;  and  whom  thou  callest  gay 
and  lively,  although  their  opera  is  sad  and  dreary." 

And  the  voice  which  had  spoken  to  me,  became  powerful,  vehe 
ment,  and  pathetic ;  and  I  wrote : 

CHAPTER  ELEVE^TTH. 
HERE  THE  REVELATION  BEGINS. 

"  0  WALLS,  which  I  have  raised  with  my  hand  as  a  monument 
of  my  glory !  O  walls,  formerly  inhabited  by  a  people  whom  I 
called  mine,  since  I  had  elected  them  from  the  beginning  to  make 
them  the  first  nation  in  Europe,  and  to  bear  their  glory  and 
renown  beyond  the  limits  which  I  have  laid  down  to  the  uni 
verse  : 

"  0  city!  thou  that  callest  thyself  great  because  thou  art  large, 


THE    LITTLE   PROPHET    OF   BOEHMISCHBRODA.  49 

and  glorious  because  I  have  covered  thee  with  my  wings !  listen 
to  me,  for  I  am  about  to  speak. 

"  0  frivolous  and  trifling  race !  0  people  inclined  to  defects, 
delivered  to  the  madness  of  thy  pride  and  vanity ! 

"  Draw  nigh,  that  I  may  square  accounts  with  thee — I,  that 
can,  if  I  will,  count  thee  as  nothing;  draw  nigh,  that  I  may 
confound  thee  in  thine  own  eyes,  that  I  may  write  thy  contemp 
tible  folly  upon  thine  arrogant  forehead  in  every  European  lan 
guage." 

CHAPTER  TWELFTH. 
THE    TRANSMIGRATION. 

<l  THOU  didst  stick  in  the  mire  of  ignorance  and  barbarism; 
thou  didst  fumble  round  in  the  darkness  of  superstition  and  stu 
pidity  y.  thy  philosophers  wanted  sense,  and  thy  professors  were 
idiots.  In  thy  schools  they  spoke  a  barbarous  jargon,  and  Gothic 
mysteries  were  played  in  thy  theatres. 

"  And  I  pitied  thee  from  my  heart,  and  I  said  to  myself — 
'This  is  an  agreeable  race;  I  love  its  fanciful  spirit  and  gentle 
manners,  and  will  make  it  my  people,  because  I  choose  to  do  so ; 
and  it  shall  be  the  first,  neither  shall  there  be  another  nation  so 
nice  as  it. 

' u  And  its  neighbours  shall  see  its  glory,  and  shall  not  be  able  to 
approach  it.  And  it  will  amuse  me  when  I  shall  have  formed  it 
according  to  my  will,  for  it  is  naturally  pleasant  and  agreeable, 
and  I  love  to  be  amused/ 

"  So  I  drew  forth  thy  fathers  from  the  abyss  where  they  were, 
and  I  dissipated  the  darkness  which  covered  thee,  and  I  bade 
the  day  draw  near  to  enlighten  thee ;  and  I  have  placed  in  thy 
bosom  the  torch  of  science,  literature,  and  art. 

"And  I  opened  the  gates  of  thine  understanding,  that  thou 
mightest  comprehend  that  which  was  hidden;  and  I  formed  and 
filled  thy  soul,  and  gifted  thee  with  all  gifts,  and  gave  thee  taste, 
and  sentiment,  and  finesse  for  thy  inheritance. 

"And  when  I  might  have  enlightened  with  my  torch  the 
Briton,  and  the  Spaniard,  and  the  German,  and  the  native  of  the 
North,  (since  nothing  is  impossible  to  me,)  I  nevertheless  did  not 
do  it. 

"  And  when  I  might  have  left  the  arts  and  letters  in  their 


50  SKETCH-BOOK    OF   ME,    MEISTER   KARL. 

own  country,  where  I  had  caused  them  to  be  revived,  I  neverthe 
less  did  not  so : 

"For  I  said  unto  them,  Arise,  and  go  forth  out  of  Italy  unto 
the  people  whom  I  have  chosen  in  the  abundance  of  my  kind 
ness,  and  into  the  country  where  I  shall  in  future  dwell,  and 
to  whom  in  my  mercy  I  have  said — <  Thou  shalt  be  the  land  of 
all  talent.'" 

"And  I  have  given  thee  all  the  crowd  of  philosophers,  from 
Descartes  and  the  philosophers  of  the  Encyclopaedia  down  to 
him  to  whom  I  have  said — *  Create  Natural  History !' 

"And  the  numberless  multitude  of  poets,  wits,  and  artists. 

"And  I  assembled  them  all  into  an  age,  and  they  call  it  the 
Age  of  Louis  the  Fourteenth,  even  to  this  day,  in  remembrance 
of  all  the  great  men  whom  I  have  given  thee,  from  Moliere  and 
Corneille,  who  are  called  Great,  to  Fare  and  Chaulieu,  who  are 
called  Neglected. 

"  And  although  the  age  be  passed,  I  pretended  not  to  perceive 
it,  and  have  perpetuated  in  thy  midst  a  race  of  great  men  and 
extraordinary  talents. 

"  And  I  have  given  thee  poets,  and  wits,  and  painters,  and 
sculptors  of  great  ability,  and  numberless  artists,  and  men  ex 
celling  in  every  thing,  from  the  great  even  unto  the  small. 

"  And  I  have  given  thee  celebrated  philosophers,  and  opened 
their  eyes  that  they  might  see  that  which  thou  couldst  not  see  j 
and  they  saw  well,  for  they  explained  those  things  which  were 
not  clear,  even  unto  themselves. 

"  And  I  have  created  a  man  expressly  for  thee,  in  whom  I 
have  assembled  all  talents  and  all  gifts,  for  he  was  endowed  as 
man  had  never  been  before. 

"  And  I  created  yet  another  man  of  profound  understanding 
and  sublime  conception,  and  said  to  him,  'See;'  and  he  saw; 
and  I  inspired  him,  and  gave  him  the  Spirit  of  Laws,  (Esprit 
dcs  Lois,)  and  he  gave  them  to  thee,  and  made  thee  see  that 
which  thou  wouldst  never  have  seen  in  the  littleness  of  thy  sight 
and  the  weakness  of  thine  eye. 

"And  his  glory  is  remembered  by  thy  neighbours  even  unto 
this  day." 


THE    LITTLE   PROPHET   OF   BOEHMISCHBRODA.  51 

CHAPTER   THIRTEENTH. 
LE    SOUFFLET. 

"BUT  since  my  benefits  have  caused  in  thee  defection  and 
disobedience ;  since  they  have  made  thee  proud,  and  thy  vanity 
and  presumption  have  risen  to  their  height; 

"And  since  thou  hast  abandoned  common  sense  and  sound 
judgment;  and  since  thou  hast  cast  thyself  into  frivolity  and 
into  the  dissipation  of  ideas,  which  are  void  of  sense ; 

'  And  since  thou  dost  every  day  decide  about  things  on  which 
thou  hast  never  reflected ; 

"  Although  in  my  mercy  I  have  hitherto  laughed  at  thy  inso 
lence,  and  have  seen  thy  impertinences  with  the  eye  of  patience; 

"And  I  have  hidden  thy  shame  and  thy  decay  from  thy  neigh 
bours,  and  have  inspired  them  with  respect  and  admiration  for 
thee — as  if,  forsooth,  thou  hadst  not  lost  all  taste  for  the  great 
and  the  beautiful ; 

"And  have  hindered  them  from  seeing  thee  rampant  in  the 
littleness  of  thy  ideas ; 

"Yet  mind  what  I  say:  I  will  revenge  myself  of  thy  strange 
blindness,  and  thy  measure  shall  be  full. 

"  And  I  will  harden  thine  ear  until  it  shall  be  like  unto  the 
horn  of  the  buffalo;  and  in  thy  quarrels  thou  shalt  be  like  the 
wild  ass  of  the  desert. 

"And  the  Italian  Farce  shall  inspire  the  spirit  of  thy  politics, 
thine  art,  and  thy  literature.  Thou  shalt  witness  gross  farces 
hundreds  of  nights  in  succession,  and  the  worse  things  become, 
the  more  delight  wilt  thou  find  therein,  for  thou  wilt  be  stupid. 

"And  indecency  and  blackguardism  will  not  choke  thee, 
and  manners  will  be  openly  outraged  in  thee,  (for  thou  wilt  have 
none,)  and  thou  wilt  not  know  good  from  evil. 

"Philosophers  shall  no  longer  enlighten  thee,  and  thou  shalt 
be  in  all  good  things,  generally  speaking,  below  par. 

"And  no  respectable  man  will  dwell  in  thee,  for  I  will  desert 
thee." 

And  the  voice  was  silent,  and  I,  Gabriel  Johannes  Nepomu- 
cenus  Franciscus  de  Paula  "Waldstorch,  called  Waldstorchel, 
Philosoph.  et  Theolog.  Moral,  in  Coll.  Mai.  RR,  PP,  Soc.  Jes 
Studios,  native  of  Boehmischbroda  in  Bohemia — I  wept  over 
the  lot  of  this  people,  for  I  have  naturally  a  tender  heart. 


52  SKETCH-BOOK    OF    ME;    MEISTER    KARL. 

And  I  would  fain  have  interceded  for  them,  because  I  am 
good  and  was  tired  of  writing,  for  I  had  written  a  long  time. 

And  I  was  wrong,  for  the  voice  was  angry,  and  I  received  a 
box  on  the  ear,  and  my  head  bumped  against  the  pillar  of  the 
corner,  which  is,  for  aught  I  know,  called  the  queen's  corner 
even  unto  this  day. 

And  I  awoke  turning  a  summerset,  and  found  myself  in  my 
garret,  which  I  call  my  chamber,  and  found  my  three  minuets, 
of  which  the  second  is  in  minor. 

And  I  took  my  violin,  and  I  played  them,  and  they  pleased 
me;  and  I  played  them  again,  and  they  pleased  me  more;  and  I 
said — "Let  me  be  quick  with  the  rest,  for  two  dozen  are  neces 
sary  !"  But  I  no  longer  felt  in  me  the  force  of  genius,  for  the 
thing  which  they  called  an  opera,  with  its  damnable  humming 
and  scraping,  kept  running  in  my  head;  and  I  made  many  notes, 
but  no  minuets;  and  I  cried  in  the  bitterness  of  my  heart — "  Oh 
that  I  had  finished  the  two  dozen  before  the  vision!"* 


CHAPTEK   THE    SEVENTH. 

THE   GAST-HAUS   IN  PRANKFORT-ON-TIIE-MAIN. 

"Op  do  reyse  moet  men  doen  als  de  bien,  en  niet  als  de  spinne-coppen." 

FLEMISH  PROVERB. 
["Travellers  should  act  like  bees,  and  not  like  spiders."] 

"To  what  hotel,  sir?" 

"To  the  first." 

Midnight — in  Frankfort — at  the  beginning  of  the  annual  fair ! 
I  knew  that  all  the  hotels  would  be  crowded,  and  applica 
tion  to  at  least  a  dozen  would  be  necessary  ere  a  room  could  be 
secured;  as  it  indeed  proved,  for  the  "Roman  Emperor"  was 
full;  the  "English"  and  "Russian  Courts"  fuller;  and  the 
"  Schwa n"  and  "  Weideiibusch"  fairly  overflowing.  The  land 
lords  were  in  high  feather,  charging  double  prices,  and  happy  as 
angels;  while  the  waiters  and  police  ran  around  busy  as  devils. 
Dim  visions  of  hiring  the  Lohnkutscher' s  vehicle  as  a  temporary 

*  Since  translating  "The  Little  Prophet,"  I  have  ascertained  that  it  was 
written  by  Grimm. — NOTK  BY  MKISTER  KARL. 


THE   GAST-HAUS   IN   FRANKFORT-ON-THE-MAIN.  53 

residence,  and  eating  wherever  it  might  please  Destiny,  flitted 
past  the  gate  of  my  soul;  but  the  coachman  drove  them  away 
with  the  remark,  "If  the  Herr  would  not  mind  roughing  it  for 
the  night,  I  could  take  him  to  a  quiet  little  tavern  near  by :  to 
morrow  may  bring  better  things/7 

On  we  went,  up  one  street  and  down  another,  through  court, 
lane,  and  alley,  until  I  thought  that  the  Cretan  Labyrinth  had 
come  again.  After  cliassiing  all  over  the  city,  we  stopped  at 
the  low  door  of  a  house  whose  overhanging  stories  and  old- 
fashioned  carvings  indicated,  if  not  respectability,  at  least  age; 
while  the  double  tin  triangles  which  swung  and  creaked  over  the 
door,  gave  the  usual  German  intimation  of  beer  and  schnapps. 

"  Du  licler  Gott!"  swore  the  stout  little  landlord,  bustling  to 
the  door,  casting  a  wink  of  recognition  to  my  driver.  "I  have 
but  one  room  left.  Lieschen,  see  to  the  gentleman's  trunk/7 

A  good-looking,  black-eyed  girl  appeared,  and  shouldering  my 
baggage,  led  me  through  a  long,  low-arched  passage,  across  a 
court-yard,  into  the  most  singular-looking  apartment  I  had  seen 
for  many  a  day.  On  three  sides  of  the  room  boxes  of  cigars  were 
evenly  piled,  so  that  not  an  inch  of  wall,  and  but  one  window  was 
visible.  On  the  fourth  or  door-side  stood  a  heavy  little  table, 
with  two  intensely-polished,  black-brown  oaken  chairs,  as  sup 
porters.  Their  high  backs  were  formed  like  shields,  in  whose 
midst  was  the  inscription,  I.  v  B.  ANNO  UDMPT.  1540;  an  im 
mensely  high  Flemish  beer-tankard,  its  top  surmounted  by  two 
affectionate  angels,  and  its  sides  incrusted  with  all  manner  of 
Low-Country  ornaments  and  hieroglyphs,  stood  upon  the  table, 
with  three  coffee-cups  and  as  many  gilt  liqueur-glasses  kneel 
ing  in  adoration  at  its  feet.  Add  to  this  a  very  German  bed, 
with  an  ordinary  mirror,  and  some  highly-coloured  devotional 
prints  hung  against  the  wall,  and  you  have  my  long-sought 
room. 

YvTith  some  little  difficulty  I  found  my  way  into  the  large 
spcise  saale,  or  eating-room  of  the  establishment,  in  which  at  a 
long  table  sat  a  party  of  solid-looking  Burgers,  with  their  glasses 
and  pipes.  I  assumed  a  chair  among  them,  and  began,  as  the 
Germans  say,  to  " orient tr en,"  or  conjecture  the  character  of  my 
new  neighbours.  They  were  all  men  of  nearly  the  same  caste — 
Frankforters  and  citizens.  A  fresh-looking,  elderly  gentleman, 
with  purple  cap  and  long  gray  locks,  who  was  frequently  addressed 


54  SKETCH-BOOK   OF   ME,    MEISTER   KARL. 

as  " Herr  Professor"  seemed  to  be  the  don  of  the  party.  But 
my  researches  were  quickly  stopped  by  a  lively,  "  What  would 
the  gentleman  be  pleased  to  have?"  from  the  landlord. 

"  Beef-steak,  potato-salad,  a  bottle  of  Forster-Traminer,  and — 
hold — a  cigar.  Don't  say  you  haven't  any,  for  I  know  the  con 
trary." 

This  allusion  to  my  room  called  forth  roars  of  laughter  from 
the  company,  and  a  thousand  apologies  from  the  landlord,  with  a 
promise  of  speedy  removal  to  a  better. 

" Ei,  was!"  cried  my  vis-a-vis.  "The  landlord,  it  seems  to 
me,  most  honourable  sir,  has  paid  you  a  high  compliment  in  thus 
embalming  you,  like  a  noble  and  costly  vanilla-bean,  in  his  to 
bacco-box,  as  we  call  the  room." 

This  was  evidently  an  old  joke  of  the  establishment,  but  I  had 
been  a  Turk  not  to  laugh. 

"Permit  me  to  wish  you  a  very  good  appetite,"  said  my 
neighbours,  bowing  politely,  as  the  supper  and  wine  appeared. 

The  steak  was  good;  the  wine  superb. 

"Permit  me  to  wish  you  a  very  good  digestion,"  exclaimed  my 
friends,  bowing  as  before,  when  Lieschen  disappeared  with  the 
fragments. 

This  intensity  of  politeness  served  as  oil  to  the  wheels  of  con 
versation,  which  now  revolved  with  wonderful  celerity.  The 
assembly  was  too  gloriously  and  genially  German  to  render  a 
cigar  advisable.  Ordering  another  flask  of  Traminer,  I  hauled 
forth  a  mighty  meerschaum,  and  in  a  few  minutes  was  running 
high  tides  with  the  rest.  Gluck,  gurgle,  and  puff.  New  sup 
plies  of  beer,  wine,  and  tobacco  continually  made  their  appear 
ance,  while  the  increasing  rattle  of  conversation,  and  an  occa 
sional  couplet  sung  in  no  sober  tones,  clearly  indicated  their  in 
fluence.  "Hurra!  hurra!  juclici!  juvivallerala!"  shouted  one 
who  seemed  to  have  attained  the  very  acme  of  excitement  of 
which  a  German  is  capable.  "  Meine  Ilcrrcn,  ich  bin — bin — be- 
soffen  !  Gentlemen,  I  confess  intoxication ;  but  let  Herr  Johann 
take  his  guitar,  and  strike  up !"  The  landlord  bowed,  and  taking 
down  an  old  instrument  from  the  wall,  burst  into  a  Low-Dutch 
camp-song,  with  which,  however,  the  whole  party  seemed  fa 
miliar,  roaring  out  the  refrain,  and  banging  and  clattering  upon 
the  table  with  their  pipes  and  glasses,  as  if  breakage  was  of  no 
consequence.  The  song  was  as  follows : 


THE   GAST-IIAUS   IN   FRANKFORT-ON-THE-MAIN.  55 

WEL,  ANNE  MARIE  KEN,  waer  gaet  gy  naer  toe — toe  ? 

Wei,  ANNE  MARIEKEN,  waer  gaet  gy  naer  toe? 

— Ik  gane  naer  buiten  al  by  de  soldaten. 

Hopsasa,  falhala — ANNE  MARIE. 

Wei,  ANNE  MARIEKEN,  wat  gaet  gy  daer  doen — doen  ? 

Wei,  ANNE  MARIEKEN,  wat  gaet  gy  daer  doen? 

— Haspen  en  spinnen  soldatjes  beininnen. 

Hopsasa,  falhala — ANNIE  MARIE  ! 

Wei,  ANNE  MARIEKEN,  hebt  gy  er  geen  man — man  ? 

Wei,  ANNE  MARIEKEN,  hebt  gy  er  geen  man  ? 

— Heb  ik  geen  man !  ik  kryge  geen  slagen. 

Hopsasa,  falhala — ANNE  MARIE  ! 

Wei,  ANNE  MARIEKEN,  hebt  gy  er  geen  kind — kind? 

Wei,  ANNE  MARIEKEN,  hebt  gy  er  geen  kind? 

— Heb  ik  geen  kind  !  ik  moete  niet  zorgen. 

Hopsasa,  falhala — ANNE  MARIE  ! 

ENGLISH. 

AND  where  are  you  going  to,  ANNE  MARIE — RIE? 

And  where  are  you  going  to,  ANNE  MARIE  ? 

— I'm  off  on  the  tramp  to  where  soldiers  encamp. 

Hopsasa,  falhala — ANNE  MARIE. 

And  what  will  you  do  there,  my  ANNE  MARIE — RIE? 

And  what  will  you  do  there,  my  ANNE  MARIE  ? 

— I'll  knit  and  I'll  spin,  a  lover  I'll  win  ! 

Hopsasa,  falhala — ANNE  MARIE! 

And  seek  you  a  husband,  my  ANNE  MARIE — RIE  ? 
And  seek  you  a  husband,  my  ANNE  MARIE  ? 
Husband  !  oh,  no  !  he  might  give  me  a  blow. 
Hopsasa,  falhala — ANNE  MARIE  ! 
Well,  have  you  an  infant,  sweet  ANNE  MARIE — RIE  ? 
Well,  have  you  an  infant,  my  ANNE  MARIE  ? 
— Infant  I've  none — I'm  better  alone. 
Hopsasa,  falhala — ANNE  MARIE  !* 

Ending  the  song  with  a  loud  hei  hurraJi,  the  worshipful  com 
pany  clasped  hands  and  danced  madly  around  the  landlord,  who 
continued  to  beat  his  guitar  and  roar  out  the  hopsasa  falhala  cho 
rus.  Staggering  to  their  chairs,  they  resumed  their  places,  calling 
loudly  on  a  certain  Herr  Becker  for  the  soldier's  funeral  oration ! 

Herr  Becker,  a  quizzical-looking  genius  of  forty,  with  his 
broad-brimmed  hat  cocked  keenly  down  over  his  left  eye,  inti 
mated  his  acquiescence  by  taking  the  head  of  the  table ;  a  pro- 

*  Arthur  O'Leary  very  correctly  points  out  the  incorrectness  of  Sir  Walter 
Scott's  putting  a  German  song  into  the  mouth  of  the  Dutch  smuggler — Dirk 
Hatteraick.  But  I  am  describing — not  composing. 


56  SKETCH-BOOK    OF    ME,    MEISTER    KARL. 

ceeding  greeted  by  such  a  thunder-storm  of  approval,  that  I  feared 
lest  my  ears  might  give  way.  Nor  was  it  until  the  ceremonies  had 
fairly  begun,  that  I  ascertained  their  reason.  On  a  distant  settee 
lay  one  of  the  reverend  signers,  very  decidedly  dead — drunk,  and 
the  survivor-  were  now  about  to  honour  his  memory  with  a  funeral. 

Captain  Becker — for  the  funeral  was  to  be  done  en  militaire — 
with  the  largest  carving-knife  the  house  afforded,  held  sword-wise 
in  his  hand,  now  gave  the  word  of  march.  Rat-tat-too,  rat-tat-too, 
the  feet  of  the  companions  beat  a  death-march  under  the  table, 
rapping  meanwhile  upon  it  with  their  fists.  The  Ilerr  Professor 
trumpeted  through  his  closed  hand,  while  the  Wirth  performed 
something  like  military  music  upon  his  guitar.  Not  a  smile  was  to 
be  seen;  all  was  done  with  an  earnest  and  most  German  gravity. 

liHalt!"  roared  the  captain.  " Make  ready!  present!  fire!" 
With  the  first  word  the  company  were  silent;  with  the  second, 
all  their  chairs  were  tilted  back  on  the  hind-logs;  and  withyzre, 
all  came  smacking  together  on  the  floor  with  a  crash  which  af 
forded  no  bad  imitation  of  a  discharge  of  musketry. 

"  Alle  Teufel!  Who's  that  firing  out  of  time?"  roared  the 
captain,  as  one  of  the  privates  toppled  heavily  backward,  and 
went  down,  chair  and  all,  with  a  thump  which  shook  the 
house  to  its  foundations. 

" Potz  donner  wetter  und  sappcrme?it !"  roared  the  recumbent; 
•'out  of  time!  why,  my  gun's  burst,  and  I'm  maimed  for  life. 
Help,  all  good  Christians — help  !" 

For  the  worthy  man,  wishing  to  produce  an  extra  report,  had 
indeed  overloaded  his  piece  by  leaning  too  far  backward.  But  he 
was  speedily  righted,  and  his  wounds  healed  with  a  fearful 
draught  of  beer. 

Then  the  captain,  who  had  in  his  time  made  two  sessions  at 
Heidelberg  as  a  student  of  economie,  arose,  and  with  great  dig 
nity  harangued  his  company : 

"Silence  there,  gentlemen  and  fellow-sinners!  In  dulci  Ju- 
bilo,  I  cry  aloud :  let  the  sight  of  yonder  corpse  stimulate  you, 
if  not  to  decency,  at  least  to  silence." 

Here  the  worthy  man  made  a  false  step,  and  had  nearly  fallen; 
recovering  himself,  he  cried — 

"  Gressus  mcos  dirigc — oh,  direct  my  foot-steps !  Let  us  not 
go  astray,  as  yonder  sinner  went.  Parce  servo  tuo.  But  a  few 
hours  since,  and  he  sat  here  sound  as  a  sausage !  Ach,  du  lieber 


THE    GAST-HAUS    IN    FRANKFORT-ON-THE-MAIN.  57 

Gott,  der  war  alter  ein  kreutz  fideler  Kerl!  (Oh  Lord!  but  lie  was 
a  glorious  fellow !)  and  now — er  ist  nicht  mchr,  (he  is  or  eats  no 
more,)  and  drinks  no  more !" 

Here  the  captain  evidently  became  bewildered,  and  lost  him 
self  in  a  perfect  chaos  of  slang  and  blasphemy,  bursting  at  last 
into  scraps  of  song,  in  the  vain  hope  of  starting  a  new  train  of 
ideas — 

"Vinum  bonum  et  suave, 
Bonis  bonum,  pravis  prave, 
Cunctis  dulcis  sapor,  ave, 
Mundana  Isetitia." 

"  Wohl  auf  ihr  gesellen  in  die  tavern ! 

Aurora  luce  rutilat, 
Ach  lieben  gesellen,  ich  trink  so  gern 
Sicut  cervus  desiderat." 

Understood  by  no  one  in  the  room  save  myself  and  the  professor, 
who  continually  hammered  the  most  frantic  approbation  on  the 
table 

"  Deus  in  adjtttorium  meum  intende — e, 
Spoke  a  pretty  little  nun — oh,  she  was  fair  to  see : 
Inclinate  capita  vestra  ! 
It  happened  in  the  carnival—; flectamus  genue  !" 

With  these  words  he  dashed  a  quart  of  beer  over  the  face  of 
the  defunct,  who  thereupon  sprung  to  his  feet  in  a  tremendous 
rage.  A  terrible  confusidn  ensued,  and  the  climax  of  all  noise 
seemed  to  be  attained.  Not  caring  to  see  more,  and  in  truth 
slightly  apprehensive  that  the  same  obsequies  might,  if  I  re 
mained,  be  ere  long  performed  over  me;  I  seized  a  candle  and  de 
parted  to  my  cigar- walled  room. 


58  SKETCH-BOOK    OF    ME,    MEISTER    KARL. 


CHAPTER  THE  EIGHTH. 

A    MASKED    BALL    IN    HEIDELBERG. 

"  THUS  run  the  giddy  hours  away, 

Till  morning's  light  is  beaming, 
And  we  awake  to  dream  by  day 
What  we  to-night  are  dreaming. 

"  To  smile,  to  sigh,  to  love,  to  change : 

Oh  !  in  our  heart's  recesses, 
We  dress  in  fancies  quite  as  strange 
As  these,  our  fancy  dresses  !" — HORACE  SOTTH. 

"  IN  VINO  VERITAS."  Truth  in  wine.  The  more  a  man 
disguises  himself,  so  much  the  more  does  he  appear  in  his  true 
colours;  which  maxim  is  even  better  illustrated  in  masquerades 
than  by  the  influence  of  wine.  Strange  that  a  fancy  dress  should 
have  the  power  to  open  the  gates  of  the  soul  and  let  out  its  pri 
soned  fancies !  "  I  am  ambitious  for  a  motley  coat,"  said  the 
melancholy  Jacques,  when  desirous  of  speaking  freely  and  truly 
to  the  "  infected  world. "  Perhaps  the  hour  at  which  masked 
balls  are  held  has  something  to  do  with  the  matter.  Before 
breakfast,  people  are  prone  to  tell  what  they  would  like  to  be. 
In  the  retrospective  twilight  hour,  they  review  the  past  and 
think  of  what  they  were.  Only  after  dinner,  or  more  accurately 
after  supper,  do  they  show  what  they  are. 

I  was  startled  one  pleasant  afternoon  in  Heidelberg  by  the  ap 
parition  of  a  friend,  with  the  announcement  that  a  grand  masked 
ball  would  that  evening  "go  los;"  or  come  off,  and  further,  that 
if  I  designed  taking  part  in  the  fun,  not  an  instant  was  to  be  lost 
in  making  due  preparation.  Not  caring  to  go  disguised,  I  re 
solved  to  enter  simply  "enpekin"  as  the  French  term  the  dress 
ing  in  citizen's  clothes.  To  be  sure,  the  ball  regulations  insisted 
that  every  one  in  the  room  should  wear  a  fancy  dress;  but  this 
was  allowed  such  a  latitude  of  interpretation,  that  a  false  nose  or 
a  feather  could  be  received  as  the  fullest  sort  of  full  dress.  The 
usual  method,  however,  of  evading  this  rule,  was  to  attach  to  the 
left  lappel  of  the  coat  a  little  fancy  mask  or  masks,  the  size  of  a 


A    MASKED   BALL   IN    HEIDELBERG.  59 

half-dollar,  which  were  to  be  found  in  great  variety  at  the  differ 
ent  shops.  We  immediately  went  for  this  purpose  to  the  maga- 
sin  des  modes,  kept  by  two  pretty  young  Jewesses  in  the  Haupt- 
strasse. 

We  found  the  establishment  full  of  upper-class  Burschen, 
busy  in  hiring  dresses,  pulling  over  fancy  wares,  and  poussiring 
or  talking  soft  nonsense  to  the  two  amiable  proprietors.  Fraulein 

H received  us  graciously;  conversed  trimly  and  prettily  in 

German-English,  to  the  great  astonishment  of  all  bystanders 
ignorant  of  her  philological  attainments ;  and  concluded  by  ex 
hibiting  several  dozens  of  the  articles  we  were  in  quest  of.  Our 
selections  made,  and  the  knbpfe  or  buttons  (as  the  students 
term  money)  delivered,  we  wended  our  way  to  the  scene  of  action, 
and  obtained  tickets. 

The  thoroughness  of  German  genius  is  admirably  manifested 
in  the  interminable  length  of  their  balls.  Before  eight  o'clock, 
Herr  Ludwig  Zimmer,  Professor  of  Dancing  at  the  University  of 
Heidelberg,  (his  name  is  enrolled  on  its  catalogue  as  one  of  the 
faculty,)  was  leading  off  the  Polonaise,  or  grand  commencing 
march,  in  all  its  glory.  Up  the  middle  and  down  the  sides ;  in, 
out,  and  about,  went  Herr  Zirnmer,  leading  his  grotesquely-at 
tired  army  at  will  where  they  least  expected  to  turn.  At  last  the 
music  ceased,  the  maskers  scattered,  and  a  clatter  of  tongues  like 
the  discharge  of  musketry  ensued. 

"  And  where  do  you  come  from,  my  little  dear  ?" 

"  From  the  Land  of  Fools,  sir,  to  inform  you  that  your  family 
are  all  well !" 

"  Pretty  girl  with  the  black  mask,  will  you  marry  me  ?" 

"Yes,  if  you'll  quit  drinking." 

"  Oh,  the  devil !  you  know  me,  do  you  ?" 

"  Oh,  Kitty,  Kitty  !  I  know  you." 

"  Then  you  are  acquainted  with  your  betters." 

"Are  you  the  Grand  Duke  of  Thunder  and  Lightning?" 
whispered  a  musical  young-lady  voice. 

"Are  you  the  Countess  Sweetcake?"  replied  a  gentleman 
bandit. 

This  was  evidently  a  preconcerted  signal,  for  the  pair  glided 
off  affectionately,  arm-in-arm. 

"I  know  you,  sir  !  I  know  you  !"  squealed  a  disguised  voice 
to  my  friend  Wolf  Short. 


60  SKETCH   BOOK   OF   ME,   MEISTER   KARL. 

"  Every  fool  knows  me,"  replied  that  amiable  gentleman,  un 
consciously  adopting  the  celebrated  mot  of  Professor  M.* 

"  Are  you  my  true  love  ?"  asks  Brown-coat. 

"No;  1  just  left  her  kissing  the  coachman,"  replies  Queen 
Mary. 

And  so  the  jargon  and  chatter  continue.  Old  friends  treat 
each  other  like  strangers,  and  strangers  are  accosted  as  old  friends. 
Every  one  speaks  freely  and  saucily  to  his  neighbour,  constantly 
employing  the  familiar  "thou,"  instead  of  the  more  reserved 
"you."  The  ladies  are  all  provided  with  little  fancy  boxes,  con 
taining  a  great  variety  of  sugar-plums  made  in  the  form  of  divers 
implements,  each  of  which  symbolizes  a  sentiment,  a  wish,  an  ac 
cusation,  or  intimation.  These  are  freely  bestowed  upon  the 
gentlemen,  who  are  thus  not  unfrequently  startled  and  mystified. 
A  graceful  female  figure,  in  black  mask  and  domino,  approached 
my  friend  "  the  Wolf."  He  anxiously  inquired  if  her  grand 
mother  were  dead,  that  she  had  donned  mourning?  No  answer 
being  made,  my  friend  intimated  that  her  ill-natured  silence  im 
plied  a  heart  as  black  as  her  face.  Her  finger  was  now  held 
warningly  up ;  and  producing  something  from  her  box,  she  pressed 
it  into  his  hand,  whispered  a  few  words  in  his  ear,  and  vanished 
in  th,e  crowd. 

"  THE  devil !"  growled  my  friend,  gazing  alternately  at  her 
retiring  figure  and  the  parting  gift,  which  was  a  tolerably  fair 
imitation  of  a  dark  lantern.  "  Well,  I  could  have  sworn  that 
nobody  knew  that." 

"  What  said  the  mask  ?" 

"  She  said — confound  her  impudence  !— that  since  I  had  taken 
to  coming  home  at  four  in  the  morning,  I  might  find  a  lantern 
convenient !" 

Leaving  him  to  his  lantern,  I  strolled  through  the  crowd.  A 
trim  little  Swiss  peasant-girl  bustled  up  and  presented  me  with  a 
boat  from  her  stores. 

"  When  you  return  to  America  and  cross  the  ocean,"  she  said, 
"  this  will  carry  you." 

Another  presented  me  with  a  little  sugar  knapsack,  to  use 


*  "Jede  Dime  kennt  micli"  was  the  vulgar  and  biting  reply  of  a  celebrated 
professor  at  Heidelberg  to  a  party  of  ladies,  who  having  at  a  masquerade  pene 
trated  his  incognito,  were  loudly  declaring  it. 


A    MASKED    BALL    IN    HEIDELBERG.  61 

during  my  return  tour,  evidently  supposing  in  her  ignorance  that 
the  journey  would  be  by  land.  A  pocket-book  and  card  from 
other  incognitas  quickly  followed,  while  a  roguish  belle,  with 
powdered  hair  and  half-mask,  in  whom  I  at  once  recognised  a 
'pretty  Strasbourg  demoiselle  of  my  acquaintance,  gravely  pre 
sented  me  with  a  butterfly,  to  the  immense  delight  of  a  bevy 
of  young  girls,  who  happened  unfortunately  to  be  gathered 
around. 

A  waltz  now  struck  up,  and  clasping  the  waist  of  my  pretty 
tormentor,  I  was  quickly  whirling  away  through  the  mysteries 
of  the  deux  temps.  At  its  conclusion  I  again  rejoined  "the 
"Wolf,"  who,  with  a  highly-contented  air,  was  escorting  a  young 
lady  in  a  crimson  and  orange  silk  domino,  whom  I  at  once  re 
cognised. 

"  Confound  it !"  exclaimed  my  friend ;  u  you  don't  know  what 
I've  suffered  since  you  saw  me.  Only  think  of  that  stupid  Clara 
making  a  captive  of  me  and  dragging  me  all  over  the  room, 
screaming  out  her  broken  English,  till  I  fairly  wished  her,  with 
her  black  domino,  to  the  devil !  But  luck  has  smiled  upon  me 
at  last.  Permit  me  to  introduce  to  you  my  new  friend,  who 
speaks  better  English,  is  a  hundred  times  more  agreeable,  and  I 
dare  say  a  thousand  times  prettier  than  Clara  !" 

"With  these  words  he  presented  his  new  flame,  who,  however, 
seemed  any  thing  but  gratified  by  the  compliments  paid  her ;  and 
no  wonder,  for  it  was  no  other  than  Miss  Clara  herself,  who  had 
during  the  waltz  simply  retired,  and  changing  her  domino,  suc 
ceeded  in  passing  herself  off  on  the  Wolf  as  an  entirely  new  and 
different  article.  As  the  gentleman  still  continued  his  maledic 
tions,  she  began  to  evince  unmistakable  symptoms  of  chagrin  and 
vexation. 

"  You  most  not  talk  so  !     Oh,  how  jfery  varm  eet  is  !" 

We  were  standing  in  an  icy  draught  from  the  door,  but  I  bowed 
an  assent  to  her  remark. 

"  I  don't  feel  it,"  answered  Wolf;  "  but  I  suppose  Clara  struck 
a  chill  to  my  soul." 

The  young  lady  thus  referred  to  now  cried,  in  a  tone  of  real 
distress — 

"  Oh,  it  is  sofery  varm ;  come,  let  oos  valk!" 

Struck  by  the  voice,  Wolf  glanced  at  her,  and  in  an  instant 
divined  the  mystery.  As  if  seized  with  sorrow  for  his  remarks, 


62  SKETCH-BOOK    OP    ME,    MEISTER    KARL. 

he  at  once  folded  his  arm  in  hers,  while  she  ejaculated  in  grievous 
tones,  to  which  her  foreign  pronunciation  gave  a  tinge  of  the 
ludicrous — 

"  Oh,  sir,  you  shold  not  apuse  me  so  !" 

Leaving  the  Wolf  to  arrange  matters  with  Clara,  I  again* 
plunged  into  the  crowd.  More  than  one  little  mystery,  more 
than  one  queer  adventure,  developed  itself  ere  I  had  completed 
the  tour  of  the  room.  Suddenly  the  music  struck  up  a  polka, 
and  at  the  same  instant  a  cry  of  astonishment  from  those  near  the 
door  heralded  the  approach  of  a  singular  spectacle.  A  party  of 
maskers,  oddly  arrayed  as  nine-pins,  entered  the  hall,  commanded 
by  a  centre  pin,  or  king,  and  followed  by  two  harlequins,  each 
bearing  a  bowling  ball  at  least  three  feet  in  diameter,  made  of 
canvas,  painted,  and  stretched  on  a  frame.  Amid  the  shouts  of 
the  assembly,  a  long  space  was  cleared ;  the  pins  arranged  them 
selves,  and  the  two  harlequins  began  their  game.  As  the  music 
pealed  up,  on  went  a  ball,  and  down  went  the  foremost  pin. 
Then  his  adversary  rolled  in  turn,  with  still  better  success. 
Every  one  touched  by  the  ball  was  obliged,  by  a  preconcerted 
arrangement,  to  fall.  Finally,  one  harlequin  made  an  "alle 
neune,"  or  nine-stroke;  so  down  went  all  the  pins,  en  masse, 
forming  a  remarkable  assortment  of  dead-wood — I  should  say, 
tableau  vivant! 

The  nine-pins  speedily  recovered  and  walked  off,  the  harlequins 
rolling  their  balls  after  them.  A  lively  Schottisch  was  now  played, 
and  the  maskers  pairing  off,  were  soon  jigging  round  the  hall 
in  double-quick  time.  At  this,  as  at  most  balls,  small  ball- 
books,  in  the  shape  of  a  card,  with  a  lead-pencil,  were  sup 
plied  to  all  entering.  On  these  were  engraved  the  name  of  the 
association,  with  the  words,  "Tanz-Folge"  or  order  of  dancing, 
and  "Ouverture."  The  dances  as  noted,  with  a  blank  space  left 
opposite  each  for  the  ladies  and  gentlemen  to  record  the  names 
of  their  partners,  were,  first,  one  Polonaise,  one  waltz,  one  "Ga- 
lopade,"  one  "Schottisch,"  one  " Franjaise,"  (quadrille,)  two 
waltzes,  and  then  a  long  pause,  succeeded  by  two  "Galopades," 
two  "  Franchises,"  two  "  Schottische,"  three  "Galopades,"  and  a 
cotillon;  the  latter  resembling  anything  in  the  world  but  the 
dance  known  by  the  same  name  in  America. 

The  two  following  rules  were  printed  on  the  back : — 


A    MASKED    BALL   IN    HEIDELBERG.  63 

1.  "  All  previous  engagements  for  free  dances  are  strictly  for 
bidden." 

.  (A  free  dance,  or  "free  turn,"  let  me  remark,  is  one  called 
out  impromptu,  by  the  master  of  ceremonies,  during  the  pause 
ensuing  between  all  the  regular  dances.) 

2.  "  Hospitiren  is  allowed  to  no  one,  except  the  regular  ball- 
directors/' 

(NOTE. — To  koqritiren,  is  to  borrow  from  a  gentleman  his 
partner,  for  a  single  tour  around  the  room.  This  term,  as  well 
as  schiessen,  to  shoot,  is  also  applied  by  German  students  to  un 
paid  attendance  on  the  University  lectures.) 

Another  pause  was  now  heralded  by  a  grand  blast  of  trumpets, 
and,  tramping  slowly  along,  in  marched  another  procession,  con 
sisting  of  characters  taken  from  German  history.  There  was 
Arminius,  or  Herrman,  with  his  eagle-winged  helmet  and  long 
haired  attendants,  with  Heaven  knows  how  many  other  partners  in 
his  toils.  But  this  procession,  though  earnestly  gazed  at,  evidently 
failed  to  excite  the  same  interest  as  the  nine-pins.  As  these 
maskers  in  their  turn  disappeared,  a  great  number  of  the  au 
dience,  ascertaining  that  the  "  grand  pause"  had  at  length  ar 
rived,  deemed  it  wise  to  follow,  for  a  time,  their  example. 

I  speedily  found  myself,  with  a  select  party  of  friends,  seated 
in  the  eating-room  of  the  "Court  of  Baden,"  as  the  neighbour 
ing  hotel  is  termed.  The  reader  who  has  witnessed  a  battle  or 
an  earthquake  may  form  some  faint  idea  of  the  confusion  which 
the  hall  presented  on  this  grand  occasion.  Overloaded  servants 
were  tearing  frantically  about,  confused  by  an  infinite  variety  of 
orders,  distributing  every  thing  in  the  wrong  place,  giving  Rhine 
wine  to  those  who  had  ordered  potato-salad,  and  hastily  pitching 
down  roast-goose  to  some  one  demanding  lemonade. 

"  We  shall  get  our  supper  some  time  after  breakfast,"  growled 
the  "Wolf,  who  had  secured  a  scat  opposite  me. 

Scarcely  had  he  spoken,  when  a  waiter,  bearing  three  plates  of 
venison  and  one  of  beef-steak,  with  potatoes  and  Rhine  wine,  (evi 
dently  intended  for  other  persons,)  stopped  and  delivered  them, 
exclaiming  hurriedly — 

"Venison,  three  portions:  here  it  is,  gentlemen;  fried  pota 
toes  :  Rhine  wine,  three  bottles  ;"  and  holding  out  the  remaining 
plate  to  Wolf,  said,  "You  want  a  beef-steak,  don't  you,  sir?" 

"Faith,  I've  wanted  it  this  two  hours  and  a  quarter,"  said 
c* 


64  SKETCH-BOOK   OP   ME,    METSTER   KARL. 

Wolf,  sticking  liis  fork  into  the  article.     "  A  very  good  guess, 
waiter  !     I  wonder  what  party  has  been  done  by  this  blunder  ?" 

In  an  instant  the  kdlner  came  rushing  back,  declaring  that  he 
had  made  a  mistake.     Fixing  his  eye  sternly  upon  him,  as  he 
poured  out  his  first  glass,  the  Wolf  theatrically  exclaimed — 
"My  friend,  it  is  too  late!" 

A  glorious,  good-natured  krcutz-fidcler,  German  student, 
known  as  Herr  Otto,  now  joined  us,  and  assumed  a  seat  by  me. 
From  the  merry  twinkle  of  his  eye,  the  unsteadiness  of  his  step, 
and  the  determined  twist  which  our  friend  occasionally  gave  to 
the  long  beard  sticking  out  from  the  point  of  his  chin,  I  inferred 
that  he  had  by  no  means  deferred  taking  refreshments  until 
supper-time.  Scarcely  was  he  seated,  ere  he  cried  to  the 
Wolf— 

"Herr  Short,  there  comes  to  you  a  whole  one!"  (id  est}  I  drink 
you  full  measure.) 

To  this  the  Wolf,  in  the  formula  prescribed  by  German-student 
custom,  replied — 

"  Es  ist  recht — savf!"     (It  is  right — drink.) 
"But  I  go  you  a  whole  bottle!'7  exclaimed  Herr  Otto,  who 
was  evidently  bent  on  doing  the  extensive. 

"A  whole  dozen — a  whole  vintage — the  whole  Rhine  crop, 
including  the  Moselle  and  Neckar — all  the  brandy  in  France, 
and  all  the  beer  in  Bavaria,  and  devil  take  the  hindmost  \"  cried 
Wolf,  rising  in  all  his  glory,  and  stretching  out  his  arms  as  if 
about  to  swim  into  imaginary  seas  of  drmk. 

With  one  bottle,  Herr  Otto  was  done  for.  Rising,  he  found 
his  way  to  the  door,  and  vanished.  All  the  next  day  his  friends 
searched  for  him  in  vain.  Inquiries  were  made  in  every  beer 
house,  coffee-house,  club,  hotel,  and  billiard-room.  That  he  had 
not  found  his  way  into  one  of  the  University  prisons,  we  were 
well  assured.  One  or  two  enterprising  individuals  even  went  so 
far  as  to  look  for  him  around  the  University  itself,  deeming  that 
he  might,  in  an  absent  moment,  have  found  his  way  into  a 
lecture-room.  At  last,  two  students,  remembering  that  liquor 
was  sold  in  the  castle,  and  perhaps  stimulated  by  the  reflection, 
resolved  to  clamber  up  and  ascertain.  But  the  quest  was  use 
less.  Near  the  castle  is  a  high  terrace  commanding  a  view  of 
the  whole  town,  with  the  valley  of  the  Neckar.  By  this  stood  a 
summer-house,  filled  with  a  vast  quantity  of  dry  leaves,  used  in 


A    MASKED    BALL   IN    HEIDELBERG.  65 

Germany  as  litter  for  cattle.  As  the  two  friends  passed  by,  it 
seemed  as  if  they  heard  a  peculiar  grunt,  with  an  indistinct 
reference  to  "more  beer." 

"Das  ist  Otto,"  said  the  first. 

"  Nein"  said  his  friend,  peering  in  on  the  leaves,  "there  is 
no  Otto  here !" 

"Mem  Gott!"  exclaimed  the  first,  pointing  to  two  shiny  black 
objects  sticking  up  out  of  the  leaves,  and  glittering  in  the  dusk 
like  the  eyes  of  a  fiend;  "Mein  Gott!  what  is  that?" 

Advancing  cautiously,  the  pair  set  up  a  hurrah  of  joy.  It 
was,  indeed,  the  tips  of  Otto's  patent-leathers  manifesting  them 
selves.  By  dint  of  hauling,  a  pair  of  black  pantaloons  and  a 
white  Marseilles  vest  became  visible.  Otto  had  slept  nearly 
fourteen  hours  in  the  leaves,  and  was,  even  then,  with  great  diffi 
culty,  induced  to  rise  and  travel  homeward. 

As  for  the  ball,  it  passed  off — for  Heidelberg — quietly  and 
pleasantly.     Not  more  than   fifty  love-affairs  ensued;    and  the 
number  of  challenges  given  on  the  occasion,  and  subsequently 
fought  out  at  Neuriheim,  over  the  river,  was  estimated  at  the 
remarkably  low  figure  of  twenty-three.     On  taking,   with  my 
three  friends,  account  of  the  presents  received  at  the  ball,  we 
found  the  following : 
3  sugar  hearts. 
2     "      babies  in  wrappings. 

1  "      baby  in  cradle. 
5     "      storks. 

7     "      kreutzer  orders  of  nobility. 

2  "      old  women. 
2     "      candles. 

1  "  lantern. 

1  "  boat. 

2  "  knapsacks. 

3  "  pocket-books. 
1  "  butterfly. 

4  "      baskets,  (equivalent,  in  German,  to  mittens.} 
17     "      Cupids. 

4     "      Hymens. 

Not  to  mention  two  bows,  a  red  ribbon,  a  white  glove,  a  silken 
Iwni  soil  bracelet,  and  an  empty  purse. 


66  SKETCH-BOOK    OF    ME,    MEISTER    KARL. 


CHAPTER  THE  NINTH. 

THE    SADNESS   OF   ROME   AND   OF   OTHER   CITIES. 
(WRITTEN  IN  THE  GARDENS  OF  THE  VILLA  BORGHESE.) 

"  Most  musical,  most  melancholy." 

"  Ich  weiss  nicht  was  soil  es  bedeuten 
Das  ich  so  traurig  bin." — HEINE. 

AND  now,  by  Sanct  Benoist,  and  on  the  faith  of  a  traveller, 
I  would  fain  know  whence  comes  this  most  delicious  melancholy 
— this  development  of  all  the  harmonies  and  dissolution  of  all 
the  discords  of  the  soul,  which  hath  so  bewitched  me  here  in 
Rome  ? 

The  Spirit  of  the  Dragon,  say  the  Adepts,  must  be  changed 
ere  we  attain  the  Great  Secret;  and  verily  it  seemeth  that  some 
potent  sorcerer  is  changing  soul  and  spirit  into  a  golden  aura 
and  refining  life  into  a  mystical  elixir  of  delight. 

Whence  comes  it,  oh  Regnault,  mon  amy,  whence  comes  it  ? 
I  have  met  with  many  who  have  resided  long  in  Rome,  but  never 
with  one  who,  enjoying  a  single  spark  of  soul,  did  not  speak 
with  the  deepest  feeling  of  its  strange,  sad  attraction.  We  know 
not  what  it  meaneth,  that  our  souls  incline  to  tears,  while  legends 
of  the  olden  time  seem  ringing  in  our  ears. 

My  best  one ! — the  business  of  thy  life  here,  is  simply  to  seek 
the  Beautiful  in  Art  and  to  admire.  And  what  is  there  which  so 
elevates,  tranquillizes,  and  refines  the  soul  as  this  contemplation 
of  the  Infinite  made  Finite  ?  In  other  lands — in  other  cities — 
these  impressions  arc  worn  away  by  counter-currents  of  thought 
and  event ;  but  here  every  influence  of  society,  scene,  or  occupa 
tion  tends  solely  to  one  great  end — the  cultivation  and  apprecia 
tion,  of  ART. 

The  Chevalier  entered  Rome  thinking  of  Caesar,  and  Juvenal, 
and  Horace,  and  Petronius,  and  left  it  dreaming  of  Raphael  and 
Renaissance,  palaces  and  endless  galleries,  and  picturesque  ruins, 
which  appeal  far  more  powerfully  to  the  artistic  sense  than  to 
antique  erudition.  In  a  month  after  his  arrival,  it  was  no  longer 


THE  SADNESS  OF  ROME  AND  OF  OTHER  CITIES.     67 

Rome  B.C.  that  lie  inhabited,  but  Rome  of  the  fifteenth  and 
sixteenth  centuries.  Seen  through  the  purple  mist  of  the  Middle 
Ages  and  the  golden  light  of  the  Revival  of  Art  and  Letters, 
even  Classic  associations  were  for  him  idealized  and  transfigured 
into  romantic  dreams. 

As  for  Wolf  Short,  the  Invincible,  he  turned  from  Niehbuhr 
to  Winckelmann,  and  made  himself  humble  before  Kugler  and 
Vasari,  that  he  might  walk  in  great  glory  and  renown  before  the 
illiterati.  In  which  he  succeeded,  as  do  many,  by  eventually  and 
greatly  astonishing  even  himself. 

" ITALIA!  ITALIA!"  quoth  Mr.  Henri  Blaze.  "This  was 
formerly  a  cry  of  the  German  Emperors;  to-day  it  is  the  cry  of 
poets.  Strange  inspiration !  Singular  pilgrimage,  where  we  are 
astonished  to  see  poets  follow  unweariedly  statuaries  and  painters !" 

Si — Monsieur  Blaze — true  for  you!  In  "this  Nineteenth 
Century,"  the  true  Poet  recognises  in  the  true  Artist  a  brother 
poet,  and  not  unfrequently  a  superior. 

But  how  I  wander!  There  is  an  herb  in  Brittany  named 
I'Egare,  and  when  the  foot  of  the  traveller  hath  once  touched  it, 
he  returneth  not  home  again,  but  wandereth  off  into  Night  and 
Darkness,  among  fairies,  hobgoblins,  will-o'-the-wisps,  elves, 
willies,  ghosts,  hop-and-go-fetch-its,  moss-men,  grim  Jemmies, 
and  similar  beings.  And  there  are  certain  subjects,  0  benevo 
lent  reader,  on  which  when  the  pen  of  the  writer  touches,  it 
goeth  off  whizzling  and  twizzling  into  more  fancy  curves  and 
dots  and  flourishes  than  are  to  be  found  in  a  Turkey  carpet;  and 
never  would  it  find  its  way  home  again  to  the  subject,  were 
it  not  for  a  fierce  magic  influence,  which  a  salutary  fear  of  the 
reading  public  exerts. 

A  fear  from  which  (St.  Scriblia  of  the  Blessed  Ink-Pot  be 
watchful  over  us !)  Meister  Karl  seems  to  be  this  morning  singu 
larly  exempt. 

I  began  this  paper  with  remarking  that  Ronm  was  blessed  with 
a  sad,  sweet  melancholy.  I  went  on  to  say  thf^lt  came  from  the 
study — the  feeling  of  the  Artistically  Beautiful — which,  like  a 
magic  essence,  doth  permeate  the  soul. 

And  I  was  going  on  to  say that  every  city  hath 

for  me  its  peculiar  attractive  sadness.  There  is  the  Neapolitan, 
which  is  that  of  the  dolce  far  niente,  or  soft  and  silky  idleness, 
extracted  from  fine  weather,  mellowed  with  the  mjgical  murmur 


nuMcal 

-, 


68  SKETCH-BOOK    OF    ME,    MEISTER    KARL. 

of  the  Mediterranean,  and  perfumed  with  orange-blossoms — the 
bride  who  walks  on  the  castle  of  Indolence  by  the  sea.  Fairest 
daughter  of  Parthenope,  niayst  thou  live  forever ! 

There  is  the  Venetian,  which  is  historico-romantic,  blended 
with  mystery,  and  is  creamily  aristocratic.  I  see  it  in  the  semi- 
oriental  portraits  of  senators  and  doges,  and  in  the  proud,  volup 
tuous  beauty  of  their  exquisite  women.  In  Venice,  more  than  in 
Rome,  do  we  live  in  the  social  past ;  its  beauty  is  less  abstract, 
and  consequently  more  palpably  melancholy..  We  know  that  the 
scenes  around  us  have  witnessed  lordly  festivals,  glorious  proces 
sions,  and  kingly  merry-makings.  We  know  that  in  these  gon 
dolas,  in  the  olden  time,  gallant  cavaliers  serenaded  fair  ladies, 
who  cast  flowers  to  them  from  the  windows  of  those  palaces.  We 
know  that  there  were  once  in  Venice  brave  times,  which  will  never 
come  again,  and  we  are  sad,  for  the  memory  of  sunny  hours  which 
return  no  more  is  among  the  delicatest  and  daintiest  of  melan 
cholies.  0  Venczia,  Venezia  I  is  there  no  sorcerer  who  can  call 
once  more  from  the  graves  of  buried  centuries  those  days  of  mad 
mirth  and  sweet  melancholy? 

"  Sadness  and  mirth  !  ye  were  mingled  there, 

With  the  sound  of  the  lute  in  the  scented  air; 
As  the  cloud  and  the  sunlight  are  blent  on  high, 
Ye  mixed  in  the  gorgeous  revelry." 

And  there  is  the  Munich  sadness,  which  is  not  unlike  the 
Roman,  with  a  flavour  of  metaphysics  and  the  addition  of  beer 
and  pipes.  But  the  melancholy  of  Munich  is  a  cheerful  disorder, 
bearing  by  no  means  heavily  on  the  soul,  and  readily  yielding, 
under  the  influence  of  its  soft-hearted  maidens,  to  a  sort  of  solemn 
jollity  and  dignified  deviltry. 

There  is  the  Berlin  sadness,  which  is  philosophico-soire'e-aes- 
thetic,  mingled  with  occasional  faint  misgivings  as  to  whether 
the  capital  of  Prussia  is  really  and  immeasurably  superior  in  every 
imaginable  respect  to  all  other  cities,  past,  present,  and  future. 
And  also  tinged  with  doubts  whether  the  Prussians,  despite  their 
endless  and  boundless  vanity,  might  not  acquire  a  few  valuable 
ideas,  were  they  so  minded,  from  the  French,  English,  and 
Yankees  ! 

There  is  the  Heidelberg  sadness,  which  is  composed  of  seven 
parts  of  German  renaissance-in-ruins  to  two  of  Gothic  ditto,  inter 
mingled  with  wavering  souvenirs  of  Walks  by  Moonlight,  Many 


THE   SADNESS   OF   ROME   AND   OF   OTHER   CIIIES.  69 

Drinking  Bouts,  Duels  at  Neunheim,  Literary  and  Legal  Lec 
tures  with  Note-Books,  Balls,  and  Billiards  at  the  Museum, 
Pleasant  Ladies  and  Ascents  to  the  Castle,  the  "dem'd  total" 
being  covered  with  a  flood  of  Rhine  wine. 

There  is  the  Florentine,  which  is  a  compound  of  the  Roman 
and  Venetian,  strongly  scented  with  violets.  And  it  is  one  of 
the  sweetest. 

There  is  the  Hamburg  sadness,  which  is  that  of  jerked  beef; 
and  that  of  Bologna,  which  arises  from  walking  through  endless 
arcades  and  from  lunching  on  great  sausages. 

There  is  the  Ferrarese,  which  is  the  very  darkness  of  desola- 
lation — where  if  you  called  on  the  last  man,  he  would  certainly  be 
out.  Also  the  Parisian  sadness,  which  is  that  of  satiety  and  re 
action;  and  the  Viennese,  which  is  that  of  Strauss. 

There  is  the  Bostonian,  which  is  commercio-literary ;  and  the 
New  Yorkian,  which  is  faro-commercial,  inspired  with  or  <e  Sass 
and  Brass,"  and  steamed  up  with  enterprise,  deviltry,  fun,  hum 
bug,  and  go-aheaditiveness ;  and  the  Philadelphian,  which  ad- 
vanceth  also,  but  with  a  more  measured  tread — which  is  peculiar 
in  being  without  a  peculiarity,  which  moveth  silently,  divineth 
unutterable  things  within  itself,  and  behaveth  decently — a  very 
comme-il-faut  sort  of  sadness,  which  presenteth  many  solid  points 
of  social  comfort. 

These  are  the  varieties  of  sadness  pertaining  to  each  city.  I 
say  nothing  against  any  of  them,  for  I  have  felt  them  all,  and 
read  Burton's  Anatomie,  when  I  was  a  Freshman.  I  am  not  the 
one  to  decry  the  least  of  them — for  I  upset  no  man's  apple-cart — 

Je  ne  vueil  pas  resembler  ecus, 
Qui  sont  garjon  por  tout  destruire.* 

Au  contraire,  I  say  that  he  who  has  inhabited  a  city,  always 
in  excitement  and  pleasure,  but  never  in  silence  and  reverie — 
always  pitching  and  staving  about,  but  never  silent  and  sombre — 
in  short,  who  has  never  had  a  touch  of  sweet,  sunny  melancholy, 
may  know  the  town  inwardly  and  outwardly,  even  as  Panurge 
knew  Paris,  unto  the  lanes,  alleys,  houses,  rooms,  closets,  and 
corners — but  the  Grand  Idea,  the  poetic  sentiment  of  the  place, 
will  be  forever  vailed  from  him.  He  may  have  seen  the  fleece, 

*  I  am  not  one  resembling  those 
Who  are  the  boys  to  destroy  every  thing. 

LAI  DEL  DESIREE,  XII.  CENTURY. 


70  SKETCH-BOOK   OF    ME,    MEISTER    KARL. 

but  he  has  not  eaten  the  mutton ;  he  may  have  gazed  upon  the 
flower,  but  has  not  scented  the  perfume ;  and  have  seen  the  golden 
lyre,  but  has  remained  deaf,  stone  deaf,  to  its  ineffable  harmonies 
and  celestial  chords. 


CHAPTER  THE  TENTH. 

FERRARA:    VENICE. 

"  FERRARA  !  in  thy  wide  and  grass-grown  streets, 

Whose  symmetry  was  not  for  solitude, 
There  seems,  as  'twere,  a  curse  upon  the  seats 

Of  former  sovereigns,  and  the  antique  brood 
Of  Este."  CHILDE  HAROLD,  CANTO  iv.  xxxv. 

I  SAY  it,  not  because  Byron  said  it  before  me,  but  out  of  my 
own  bitter  experience,  that  the  city  of  Ferrara  is  the  most  in 
tensely  dull  place  ever  inhabited. 

Dulness  in  other  localities  is  merely  apathetic,  negatively  bad ; 
but  in  Ferrara  the  blue  devils  assail  you  with  a  spite,  a  virulence, 
a  malignity  which  might  perhaps  be  appreciated  by  those  who 
have  suffered  solitary  durance-vile  on  a  rainy  Sabbath,  but  which 
certainly  has  not  its  parallel  in  the  ordinary  course  of  human 
events. 

I  pity  the  man  who,  in  any  other  city,  cannot  drum  up  agree 
able  companions,  pretty  faces,  or  something  to  pass  time  on.  But 
Ferrara ! 

My  excellent  friend,  as  I  now  write  alone,  and  as  the  recollec 
tion  of  the  sickening  solitude  of  that  town  comes  over  me,  I  feel 
half  disposed  to  rush  out  and  join  the  first  human  being  I  meet. 
Ah,  thank  Heaven,  there  is  somebody  walking  by ! 

It  strikes  me,  that  according  to  my  own  and  others'  experience, 
it  would  be  absolutely  profane,  improper,  incorrect,  a  sin,  in  fact, 
against  the  genius  of  the  place,  (if  there  be  one,)  to  even  attempt 
to  be  merry  in  such  a  God-and-man-forsaken  hole. 

What  do  you  think,  reader,  of  such  jolly,  comfortable,  soul-in 
spiring  sentiments  as  the  following,  taken  from  a  journal  dated 

April  the  first,  on  which  day  my  young  C ,  the  author  of  said 

diary,  had  most  appropriately  entered  Ferrara  ? — 

"  FERRARA  is  a  silent,  mournful  city.     An  inhabited  solitude 


FERRARA  :    VENICE.  71 

sounds  strangely,*  but  such  it  is.  Sad  and  desolate,  the  stranger 
feels  as  if  he  had,  by  some  mistake,  been  thrown  out  of  time. 
How  I  long  for  the  busy,  bustling  world  !  How  gladly  would  I 
welcome  any  face  that  I  have  ever  seen  before  !  But  no,  here  I 
am  alone.  A-a-a-ah-h  me  !  how  forlorn  and  dull ! 

"  As  I  sit  in  my  room  this  evening,  at  dusk,  I  feel  as  wretch 
edly  alone  as  any  human  being  can.  I  am  in  the  first  hotel  of 
the  town,  and  the  only  soul  in  it,  except  the  landlord  and  servants. 
Oh,  dreariness! 

" ( Ah  me  !  I  am  aweary,  aweary, 
I  would  I  were  abed  !' " 

Reader,  I  will  give  you  one  or  two  of  my  own  observations  in 
Ferrara.  I  was  tramping  along  one  morning  through  the  town, 
with  a  villainous  old  valet-de-place  for  a  guide,  when  my  attention 
was  arrested  by  seeing  an  important-looking  personage  in  uniform 
blowing  a  trumpet.  On  concluding  his  music,  he  cried,  in  a 
loud  voice,  a  sentence,  the  only  word  of  which  I  could  catch 

Was  "  XL  GONFALONIERE." 

I  asked  the  valet-de-place  what  the  trumpeter  had  said;  but 
the  old  rascal,  despite  his  dishonesty,  was  intensely  proud  of  his 
native  city,  and  evaded  the  question.  Being  closely  pressed,  ho 
at  length  gave  it :  iil  Qummon  you  all,  in  the  name  of  tlic  Gon- 
falonierc,  to  come  forth  and  weed  the  streets!"  It  is  well  known 
that  many  of  the  streets  of  Ferrara  are  overgrown  with  grass. 
This  has  become  such  a  reproach  (or  inconvenience)  to  the  in 
habitants,  that  means  have  been  taken  to  remove  it.  Accord 
ingly,  as  we  went  along,  I  saw  numbers  of  old  women  and  chil 
dren  come  forth  with  baskets  and  knives  for  that  purpose. 

Those  curious  in  such  items  may  refer  to  John  Murray  for  a, 
description  of  Ariosto's  house  and  ink-stand,  or  his  manuscripts, 
with  those  of  Tasso,  in  the  library.  But  one  souvenir  "of  the 
past  touched  my  soul  on  the  raw.  The  custode,  who  showed  me 
the  ancient  Palace  d'Este,  finally  found  his  way  to  a  room,  which 
he  called  Parisina's. 

"Very  good;  nothing  more  likely!"  thought  I,  with  an  ex 
pression  of  intense  gratification,  looking  around,  meanwhile,  at 
the  walls  with  that  vividly  curious  air  with  which  we  generally 

*  Not  at  all,  friend  C .     "  Enter  the  KING  solus,  with  two  fiddlers,"  is 

an  old  precedent.  NOTE  BY  THE  MEISTER. 

7 


72  SKETCH-BOOK   OF    ME,    MEISTER   KARL. 

regard  the  masonry  of  any  place  where  a  remarkably  interesting 
event  has  occurred.  But  I  was  right  in  this  instance;  for,  on 
second  thoughts,  I  took  a  squint  at  the  ceiling ! 

"And  HERE/'  continued  the  guide,  pointing  to  a  very  common, 
tawdry-looking,  gilt  Chinese  secretary,  full  of  looking-glasses, 
"here  is  Parisina's  secretary;  and/'  sinking  his  voice  to  an  awful 
whisper,  while  glancing  darkly  and  mysteriously  around,  "and 
here,  in  these  very  secret  drawers,  her  correspondence  with  Ugo 
was  concealed!" 

Shade  of  Byron ! 

With  which  1  recur  to  my  diary : 

"  APRIL  3 — Ketired  early;  rose  ditto;  got  my  coffee;  paid  a 
scandalously  exorbitant  bill;  and  found  my  way  to  the  diligence. 

"  Company  consisted  of  a  lively  Italian  lady,  rather  passee, 
whose  entire  information  on  the  subject  of  America  was  con 
tained  in  a  knowledge  of  the  fact  that  FANNY  ELLSLER  (or 
Lesler,  as  they  call  her  here  in  Italy)  had  been  there.  She  had 
with  her  a  remarkably  stupid  husband.  Before  long  we  reached 
the  Po,  and,  while  crossing  it  in  a  ferry-boat,  our  passports  were 
examined.  In  walking  about,  I  soon  became  aware  that  I  was 
an  object  of  great  curiosity.  All  my  movements  were  scanned 
with  that  'I-wonder-what-he'11-do-next'  sort  of  air,  which  was 
to  me  quite  incomprehensible.  To  dissipate  any  nervous  per 
plexities  which  might  arise,  I  took  out  my  pipe.  Immediately 
the  eyes  of  all  present  were  fixed  upon  it,  as  though  the  calumet 
of  the  great  Nantucket  fog-giant  himself  had  appeared.  I 
wanted  a  light :  immediately  half  a  dozen  matches  were  tendered 
me  by  as  many  men.  My  choice  made,  I  could  at  once  observe 
that  the  fortunate  individual  thus  honoured  at  once  became  himself 
a  lien,  of  lesser  magnitude,  and  had  a  knot  collected  around  him, 
to  whom  he  seemed  to  be  confidentially  narrating  something,  ever 
and  anon  mysteriously  exhibiting  his  match-case,  which  was 
turned  over  and  examined  by  all  with  intense  interest. 

"When  I  walked  along  the  boat,  every  one  respectfully  made 
way  for  me,  and  kept  silence  until  I  had  passed.  But  what  it 
all  meant  I  could  not  guess.  When  I  approached  the  horse,  (for 
it  was  a  wheel-boat,  worked  by  a  one-horse  power,)  the  engineer 
(I  mean  the  man  who  fed  and  whipped  the  animal)  looked  as  if 
he  would  have  given  all  he  knew  to  have  me  speak  a  word  to 
him.  Only  one  man  on  board  seemed  to  put  on  a  nil-admirari 


FERRARA:    VENICE.  73 

air,  and  affect  to  care  nothing  for  the  stranger.  For  this  man  I 
at  once  naturally  conceived  a  deep  antipathy,  which  immediately 
subsided  into  intense  contempt.  I  had  no  doubt,  that  if  he 
would  only  uncover  his  head,  instead  of  a  bump  of  veneration,  I 
should  behold  a  cavity  in  which  a  hen  might  hide  herself.  Soon 
a  keen-eyed,  gentlemanly,  man-of-the-world-looking  officer  in 
mufti  came  up,  and,  addressing  me  in  French,  said — 

"  l Excuse  me;  but  you  may  not  be  aware  that  you  are  quite  a 
lion  at  present/ 

"' Indeed!'  quoth  I,  innocently,  and  attempting  to  come  the 
air  generally  assigned  on  the  stage  to  emperors  in  disguise;  i in 
deed  !  and  why  V 

f{f  Because  they  have  found  out,  by  the  passport,  that  you  are 
an  American;  and  one  may  well  believe  that  they  all  see  an 
American  now  for  the  first  time/ 

"  My  new  friend  did  not  belie  his  appearance.  In  five  minutes 
we  had  slidden  into  an  intimacy,  the  good  effects  of  which  were 
manifested  immediately  after  at  the  office  of  the  (J)ogana>'  on 
the  other  side,  where,  amid  all  the  searching  of  trunks  and 
boxes,  he  imperatively  laid  his  hand  on  my  baggage,  and  signi 
fied  to  the  officials  that  they  need  not  trouble  me. 

"  'But/  said  I,  'my  pockets  are  loaded  with  tobacco;  what  if 
they  should  take  a  look  at  them  V 

"'Parbleu!'  quoth  he,  laughing,  'so  are  mine'/ 

"  With  these  words,  he  took  out  a  bag  full  of  the  article,  and 
shook  it  laughingly  at  the  douanier,  who  grinned  wistfully  at 
the  prohibited  commodity. 

"We  breakfasted  at  Rovigo,  and  arrived  in  Padua  that  after 
noon.  My  officer  went  directly  on  to  Venice  in  the  railroad  cars, 
while  I,  who,  owing  to  the  joint  lies  of  the  head- waiter  and  land 
lord,  had  unwittingly  taken  a  diligence  ticket  through,  had  to 
wait  an  hour  for  the  vehicle  which  was  to  convey  me,  which  hour 
I  spent  in  the  Cafe  Pedrocchi. 

"  'THE  CAFE  PEDROCCHI/  says  the  Guide  Book,  'is  really  a 
species  of  national  monument,  from  its  splendour.  The  exterior 
is  of  marble;  the  style,  Italian-Gothic,  and  remarkably  good. 
It  is  curious  to  see  the  pattern  of  an  ancient  palazzo  revived  for 
such  a  purpose.  While  the  building  was  in  progress,  Pedrocchi 
was  present  every  evening,  and  paid  all  the  workmen  ready 
money,  and  always  in  old  Venetian  gold.  He  had  been  left  in  poor 


74  SKETCH-BOOK    OF    ME,    MEISTER    KARL. 

circumstances,  and  lived  in  a  ruinous  little  old  house  upon  the 
site  of  the  present  Fairy  Palace,  which,  falling  into  decay,  he 
was  compelled  to  pull  down.  Suddenly  he  abounded  in  riches — 
as  many  stories  are  now  afloat  concerning  hidden  treasures,  and 
yet  more  awful  things,  as  would  furnish  materials  for  a  legend — 
and  thus  was  the  present  magnificent  structure  raised.  During 
the  building,  portions  of  an  ancient  Roman  edifice  were  disco 
vered,  and  the  marbles  so  found  have  been  employed  in  the  slabs 
and  pavements  of  the  salone.' 

"At  last  the  diligence  started,  with  me  for  the  only  passenger; 
and  such  a  glorious,  stout,  silent,  gruff  old  Hungarian  giant  for 
conducteur.  Wishing  to  enjoy  the  scenery,  I  sat  with  him  on  the 
box  outside.  He  smoked  his  straw  cigar  for  some  time,  and  then 
came  out  with — 

"  lKommen  sic  von  weitem  licr  T  (Do  you  come  from  a  distance  ?) 

"'Jc/,'  quoth  I;  'from  America.' 

"'And  America  is  in  England,  is  it  not?'  he  asked,  in  a  tone 
indicating  some  little  complacency  at  the  extent  of  his  own  in 
formation. 

"  'Ncin,'  I  replied;  'three  thousand  miles  distant.' 

"  This  was  a  poser  for  the  old  fellow,  and  he  smoked  over  it 
at  least  ten  minutes. 

"'And  of  what  religion  are  the  people  in  your  country?' 

"I  was  (mca  culpa)  strongly  tempted  to  reply,  'Oh,  heathens, 
of  course !'  but  contented  myself  with  explaining  that  we  had  a 
great  variety. 

"We  had  crossed  the  Po  and  the  Adige  that  morning,  and 
now  rode  along  '-the  banks  of  the  Brcnta,'  stopping  at  Dolo. 

"  At  last  I  went  inside.  How  glorious !  A  diligence  all  to 
myself!  Why,  it  was  a  high-pressure  luxury!  No  fat  old  gen 
tleman  punching  his  elbows  into  you ;  nobody  opposite  to  cross 
legs  with,  or  beg  pardon  of  for  treading  on  his  corns.  No  soul 
to  keep  you  from  smoking.  Oh,  lordly !  I  lay  out,  d  la  Ameri 
can,  so  as  to  take  up  as  much  room  as  possible;  shut  the  win 
dows,  lighted  my  meerschaum,  and  smoked  till  the  interior 
was  like  an  opal  or  cairngorm.  I  amused  myself  by  imagining 
the  vehicle  full  of  travellers  of  the  most  tobacco-hating  de 
scription  conceivable.  Then  I  opened  the  window;  puff  went  the 
smoke!— and  self,  and  ease,  and  all  was  forgotten  in  the  calm 
scenery  of  the  banks  of  the  Brenta. 


FERRARA:    VENICE.  75 

"  Night  caine,  and  at  last  our  diligence  stopped.  I  paid  the 
postilions,  and  was  conducted  to  a  long,  covered  boat.  The 
Hungarian,  who  had  constituted  himself  my  guide,  guardian, 
uncle,  and  protector  for  the  time  being,  saw  to  every  thing  for 
me;  packed  me  away  comfortably  on  a  seat,  with  one  of  his  big 
shaggy  coats;  scolded  me,  got  me  a  cigar,  jumped  in  himself, 
and  we  started. 

"On,  on,  on,  for  an  hour,  and  not  a  sight  save  the  twinkling 
of  many  lights  far  in  the  distance,  and  few  sounds  save  the 
plashing  of  our  oars.  I  could  understand  nothing  of  what  the 
boatmen  said;  it  was  a  new  dialect,  Venetian;  nor  my  Hunga 
rian,  who  conversed  earnestly  for  a  long  time  with  another  con- 
ducteur  in  the  same  patois.  He  seemed,  as  far  as  I  could  make 
out,  to  be  angry  at  having  had  the  charge  of  'ma'tratti  i  forcs- 
tieri' — id  cst,  abusing  foreigners — put  forward  as  an  accusation 
against  him.  We  stopped  at  the  dogana}  where  I  gave  up  niy 
passport,  and  then  rowed  on. 

"'And  now  we  are  entering  the  city/  said  the  Hungarian. 

"I  looked  out.  Yes;  there  it  was.  Star-ray  and  moon-beam 
shone  over  spire  and  palace,  over  bridge  and  gondola.  City  of 
mystery  and  beauty,  for  which  my  soul  had  longed  since  early 
childhood,  thou  wert  before  me !  ay,  even  as  I  had  seen  thee  in 
my  dreams.  Yes,  it  was  a  reality  now;  the  dreams  were  ful 
filled;  I  saw  thee,  Queen  of  the  Adriatic,  fair  city  of  waters. 
With  what  a  throbbing  earnestness  I  drew  within  myself,  and 
said,  '  Now  thou  art  really  in  Venice ;  this  can  no  one  take  from 
thee,  that  thou  hast  seen  thy  dream-city !'  And  the  Hungarian 
still  growled  on  in  his  patois;  the  boatmen  sang  loudly  and  mer 
rily;  our  boat  darted  like  a  swallow  into  the  Grand  Canal,  and, 
with  a  glad  heart,  I  entered  that  great  city,  though  no  friend  or 
acquaintance  awaited  my  arrival,  and  no  soul  save  the  hotel- 
keepers  cared  for  my  coming. 

"'  Now  the  Rialto-bridge  is  at  hand/ quoth  the  Hungarian. 
I  looked  out.  There  it  was,  right  before  me !  the  Rialto! 
'Dear  Lord!'  quoth  I.  The  boat  darted  on;  another  second, 
and  the  bridge  was  arching  darkly  over  our  heads.  Shade  of 
Shylock,  it  was  a  fact !  And  Shakspeare  must  be  true,  every 
word ! 

"And  on,  on,  on!  This  was  Venice.  Palace  and  spire  faded 
by,  one  after  the  other.  We  stopped  at  the  Post. 


76  SKETCH-BOOK    OF    ME,    MEISTER    KARL. 

"'Will you  take  a  yoiuMa  to  go  to  your  hotel?'  said  the  Hun 
garian. 

"'"WON'T  I?'  quoth  I.      '  Only  try  me!' 

"The  Hungarian  smiled  grimly.  He  had  been  young  once, 
and  stepping  out,  ordered  a  two-oared  gondola,  at  two  zwanzigers. 

"  There  it  floated  in  all  its  glory,  filling  the  air  around  with 
beauty:  a  real  black  gondola — jet-black,  ink-black,  lamp-black, 
looking  for  all  the  world  like  a  hearse  afloat.  So  in  I  tumbled. 
'Sink  or  swim,  live  or  die,'  thought  I,  'I  will  at  least  have 
one  glide/  'Look  you,  sir  traveller,  wear  strange  suits,  or 
people  will  scarcely  think  that  you  have  swum  in  a  gondola.' 
'That  doesn't  apply  to  me  now,'  thought  I,  solemnly;  'I've 
Icen  and  done  it.' 

"'Oil  pescator  doll'  onda — Fitlolin. 
Oh  pescator  dell'  onda — Fidolin. 
Vieni  pescar  in  qua — 
— Colla  bella  sua  barcha, 
Colla  barcha  se  no  va — Fidolin  !'  " 


CHAPTER  THE  ELEVENTH. 

VENICE. 

"VIDEUAT  Iladriacis  Venetam  Neptunus  in  Undis 

Stare  urbem  et  toto  ponere  jura  mari : 
Nunc  mihi  Tarpeias  quantumuis  Jupiter  arceis 

Objice,  et  ilia  tui  moenia  Martis,  ait : 
Si  pelago  Tybrim  pracfers,  urbem  aspice  utramque, 
Illara  homines  dices,  hanc  posuisse  DEOS." 

JAC.  SANNAZAR,  EPIGR.  LIB.  I. 
"Venus  and  Venise  are  of  like  degree, 

Venus  is  Qucciie  of  Love — Venise  of  policie." 

HOWELL'S  LETTERS. 

WHETHER  all  the  friends  whom  I  there  met  experienced  the 
same  rapturous  emotions  as  myself,  in  first  beholding  Venice, 
swimming  in  gondolas  or  flaneeing  about  St.  Mark's  and  the 
Ptialto,  I  know  not;  nor  whether  they  were  equally  delighted 


VENICE.  77 

with  myself  in  reaching  a  land  of  good  cigars,  prime  coffee,  su 
perb  Kirschwasser,  and  an  admirable  opera.  But,  to  judge 
from  appearances,  I  should  say  that  they  were  fully  disposed  to 
do  average  justice  to  all  such  items,  particularly  the  latter. 

Venice  is  not  a  city  to  live  and  die  by;  though  one  can  pass 
weeks  or  even  months  in  it  wi^iout  experiencing  ennui  or  dis 
satisfaction.  I  could  never  yet  rid  myself  of  the  feeling  which  is 
said  to  have  haunted  an  old  sea-captain  while  there :  id  est,  an 
irrepressible  longing  to  go  on  shore.  True,  there  is  a  vague  re 
port  or  theory  that  every  house  in  the  city  may  be  approached  by 
land ;  but  we  all  soon  experienced  such  difficulty  in  our  attempts 
at  practical  solutions  of  portions  of  this  puzzle,  that  we  generally, 
at  the  first  perplexity,  cut  the  Gordian  by  ordering  the  best 
gondola  within  hail.  This  perpetual  intermixture  and  inter 
ference  of  aquatics  with  the  ordinary  interests  of  life,  naturally 
produces  on  new-comers  a  singular  effect.  Miss was  al 
most  afraid  to  go  from  one  apartment  to  another,  for  fear  of  step 
ping  into  the  Grand  Canal;  and  opened  every  door  with  as  much 
caution  as  if  she  expected,  like  the  sorceress  in  the  Arabian 
Nights,  to  behold  a  river  flowing  across  the  room.  Nearly  all 
our  party  declared  that  their  dreams  turned  upon  flowing  water, 
plashing  wavelets,  and  walls  with  iron  rings,  ever  wet  by  the 
restless  flood.  The  Wolf  inquired  of  the  company  one  day,  at 
dessert,  whether  a  Venetian  had,  as  things  exist,  more  than  half 
a  right  to  boast  of  his  Father-ZomcZ;  while  a  fat  old  gentleman  in 
the  corner  (a  stranger  to  us)  suggested  as  postscript  that  he  could 
imagine  nothing  of  which  a  regular  native  could  have  a  firmer 
terror  than  terra  firma.  Which  outrageous  squawk  at  once 
brought  down  on  his  head  the  wrath  of  the  entire  assembly,  who 
unanimously  declared  that  the  perpetrator  of  such  villainy  de 
served  to  be  thrown  at  once  into  the  canal.  To  which  the  old 
gentleman  declared  that  "he'd  like  to  see  them  try  it."  To 
which  young  C.  retorted,  in  an  under-tone,  that  he  would  do 
it  directly,  were  he  not  afraid  of  spoiling  the  fish.  At  which 
the  venerable  man  cried,  "Hold!"  acknowledged  the  corn,  and 
begged  leave  to  stand  half  a  dozen  of  Montebello. 

"I  stood  in  Venice  on  the  Bridge  of  Sighs, 

With  MURRAY'S  red-bound  guide-book  in  my  hand; 
When  lo !  an  Englishman  before  me,  cries, 
'<  That  'ore's  the  Bridge  of  SIZE— well !  I'll  bo  d— d !' " 


78  SKETCH-BOOK   OF    ME,    MEISTER    KARL. 

Well,  reader,  I  know  not  whether  it  be  as  strictly  forbidden  at 
present  to  go  upon  the  Bridge  of  Sighs  as  it  was  when  I  was 
there;  but  if  such  should  be  the  case,  I  would  advise  you  to  pre 
sent  an  Austrian  officer,  as  I  did,  with  a  zwanziger,  which  will 
obtain  for  you  instant  admission — i.e.  if  you  care  to  go;  which 
I  certainly  should  have  neglected  to  do,  had  not  a  gentleman,  in 
vested  with  some  little  diplomatic  authority,  assured  me  that 
as  he  had  never  been  able  to  effect  an  entrance,  ergo,  I  need 
not  try.  Great  is  the  folly  of  this  world !  nor  was  mine  the 
least. 

From  the  Bridge  of  Sighs  we  pass  naturally  to  the  Galleries  of 
the  Doge's  Palace.  And  there,  near  what  was  once  a  "Lion's 
mouth,"  (the  lion  is  gone,  and  only  the  aperture  remains,)  the 
traveller  may  observe  fixed  in  the  wall  several  tablets,  bearing 
inscriptions.  It  was  usual,  in  ancient  Venice,  when  a  state- 
officer  had  been  guilty  of  any  great  offence  against  the  common 
wealth,  to  expose  to  public  view  a  short  statement  of  his  crime, 
for  the  edification  of  other  functionaries,  and  the  particular  grati 
fication,  we  may  presume,  of  his  family  and  friends.  Of  such  a 
nature  are  these  tablets.  The  reader  may  observe  that  the  two 
following  commemorate  the  faux  pas  of  a  couple  of  il  de 
faulters:" 

"MDCCXVIII. 

"Gio.  GIACOMO  CAPRA  FU  CONTADOR  NELLA  CASA  GRANDE  DEL  MAGISTRATO 
ALLE  CIAVE  CANDITO  DALL  ECCSO;  CONS:  DiiXcc:  Li:  6:  SKTTEMBRE  COME 
MINISTRO  INFEDELE  E  REO  DI  GRAVE  INTACEO  FATTO  NELLA  CASSA  MEDEMA." 

"VETTUNA  MAFETTI  DEI  BRAZO  QU  GIACOMO  GIA'  NODARA  IN  QUESTO  MAGIS 
TRATO  DELLE  ClAVE  FU*  CAPITA  LAMENTS  CANDITO  A'  XXX*  MAGGIO  MDCCXXX 
MI  DALL  ECCELSO  CONSIGLIO  DI  DIECI  PER  ENORME  INTACCO  DI  PEGNI  ASCEN- 
DENTE  A  RIGUARDE  VOLE  SUMMA  El  DENARO  A'  GRAVE  PREGUDIZIO  DELLE  PUB- 
BLICA  CASSA." 

But  of  all  rich  inscriptions,  gentle  reader,  the  one  posted  up 
in  the  Chamber  of  the  Council  of  the  Ten  was  probably  the  rich 
est.  Whether  it  was  placed  there  as  an  intensely  spicy  joke  by 
some  Pantagruelistic  statesman,  I  could  never  learn.  But  that 
it  was  fearfully  inappropriate,  considering  the  general  course  of 
Venetian  diplomacy,  no  one  will  deny : 

"PRIMUM  SEMPER  ANTE  OMNIA  DILIGENTE  INQUIRITE  :  UT  CUM  JUSTITIA  ET 
1HAR1TATE  DIFFIXIATIS  :  NEMINEM  CONDEMNETIS  ANTE  VERUM  ET  JUSTUM  JUDJ- 
CIUM  :  NULLUM  JUDICKT1S  SUSl'ITIOXIS  ARBITRIO  SED  PRIMUM  PROBATE  ET  POSTEA 


VENICE.  79 

CHARITATIVAM  SENTENTIAM   PROFERTE    ET    QUOD    VOBIS  NO  VULTIS  FIERI  ALTERI 
FACERE  NOLITE." 

"BEFORE  all  things,  search  diligently  into  every  matter,  that  ye  may  discern 
justly  and  charitably;  that  ye  may  condemn  none  except  by  a  true  and  right 
eous  judgment;  that  ye  may  judge  none  by  arbitrary  suspicion;  but  first 
thoroughly  examine,  and  then  render  a  charitable  opinion,  and  what  you  would 
not  do  to  yourself,  be  unwilling  to  do  to  another." 


I  originally  intended  that  this  chapter  should  be  something 
better  than  a  mere  collection  of  odds  and  ends,  snippings  and 
snappings,  slippings  and  stoppings,  chippings  and  choppings. 
But  he  is  a  fortunate  man  who  knows  how  his  wife  will  turn  out; 
or  rather  she  is  a  doubly  fortunate  woman  who  finds  in  her  hus 
band  all  that  she  expected;  and  three  or  four  times  blessed  is 
that  writer  who  can  form  an  accurate  idea  as  to  the  manner  in 
which  a  chapter  must  inevitably  conclude.  But  since  I  am  fairly 
in  for  the  desultory,  here  goes  for  a  few  more  items,  pepper- 
boxically  distributed. 

In  Venice,  as  in  other  European  cities,  every  shop  has  its  pe 
culiar  name,  like  the  hotels  and  restaurants  in  our  own  country. 
And  this  is  indicated  either  by  a  picture  or  an  inscription. 
Among  the  latter  I  observed  a  cheese-monger's  establishment, 
whose  sign  was,  " Alia  Divina  Providenza"  To  DIVINE  PROVI 
DENCE;  a  brandy-shop  dedicated  to  the  MOST  HOLY  TRINITY;  a 
cafe,  to  the  HOLY  REDEEMER;  and  a  tallow-chandler's,  simply  to 
the  REDEEMER,  without  an  adjective. 

There  are  in  Venice  large  gondolas,  termed  Omnibuses,  which 
take  up  and  let  down  passengers  at  any  points  on  the  Grand  Canal 
which  they  may  designate,  for  a  trifling  fare.  I  took  a  ride  in 
Number  xni.,  and  found  it  infinitely  the  best  'bus  in  a  vehicular 
sense  that  I  ever  tried.  Vehicular ! — even  yet  I  may  be  mis 
understood  ;  for  are  we  not  transported  by  busses,  be  they  of  what 
description  they  may? 

The  CA'  D'  ORO,  or  Golden  House,  though  not  the  largest,  is 
undoubtedly,  to  a  romantic  taste,  by  far  the  most  striking  and 
beautiful  among  the  Venetian  palaces.  It  had  begun  to  decay, 
but  has  been  purchased,  I  am  told,  and  completely  restored,  by 
Taglioni,  la  Danseuse.  A  more  appropriate  tenant  for  such  a 
building  would  be  difficult  to  conceive.  For  who,  I  ask,  ouglit 
to  live  in  palaces,  if  not  great  artists,  the  teachers  of  the  beauti 
ful  ?  And  I  pity  that  man  who  confounds  the  bright  particular 


80  SKETCH-BOOK    OF    ME,    MEISTER    KARL. 

stars  of  the  ballet  with  chorus-dancers  and  performers  in  Lcs 
Poses  Piastiqucs,  as  much  as  I  do  the  spiteful  ignoramus  who 
condemned  the  painter  for  his  impiety  in  painting  CHRIST  and 
Juda*  with  pigments  "all  out  of  the  same  pot."  Those  who 
affect  to  condemn  the  ballet,  yet  pretend  to  appreciate  the  beau 
tiful  in  art  and  nature,  will  do  well  to  look  at  the  compliment 
paid  by  the  grave  Professor  Thiersch,  in  his  Acsthctik,  to  the 
talent  of  Ellsler  and  Taglioni. 

Italian  wit,  or  even  insolence,  is  sometimes  over-matched.  An 
Austrian  having  business  with  some  Venetian  officials,  and  being 
unacquainted  with  their  language,  addressed  the  principal  in  his 
native  tongue ;  "I  am  not  a  wild  ass,  to  bray  in  German," 
politely  replied,  in  French,  the  individual  addressed.  "  Strange/' 
answered  the  Austrian,  looking  contemptuously  round  at  the 
assembly,  "that  the  slaves  have  not  yet  learned  the  language 
which  their  master  speaks."  An  interpreter  was  at  once  offered. 

I  have  not  unfrequently  remarked  in  Venice  small  placards 
on  the  walls,  bearing  the  name  of  one  or  the  other  clergyman, 
accompanied  by  a  highly  commendatory  sentence,  the  formula 
being  as  follows:  "In  segno  d'esulfazione  pel  nostro  Vicar  io 
Sebastian  Valier ;"  "In  sign  of  exultation  for  our  vicar  Sebas 
tian  Valier."  Of  the  nature  of  the  services  rendered  by  the 
worthy  gentleman  which  entitled  him  to  this  extraordinary 
eulogium,  I  am  not  informed. 

I  was  sailing  along  the  Grand  Canal  one  fine  morning  in  a 
gondola  with  a  New  York  friend,  when  we  espied,  for  the  first  time, 
the  black  porter  of  the  Leone  Bianco  Hotel,  basking  in  the  sun. 
Up  rose  my  friend,  and  cried  out,  "  I  say,  Buck,  how  did  you  get 
there?"  Great  was  the  darkey's  joy,  as  he  replied,  on  the 
broad  grin,  "Lord  bless  me,  mas',  is  you  American?"  "Well, 
I  am,"  was  the  reply;  "what  do  you  do  here?"  With  a  still 
intenser  grin,  shutting  up  both  eyes  and  chuckling,  Ebony  re 
plied,  "Dey  puts  me  out  here  in  front  for  a  bait  to  'trap'  de 
Americans  wid  !"  

I  have  always  been  a  reader  of  "flying  leaves,"  popular  songs, 
afld  ha'penny  literature  generally.  Nor  do  the  "last  dying 
speeches  and  confessions"  of  England;  the  "Marseillaise," 
"Bon  roi  Dagobert,"  and  "Chant  du  Depart"  of  France,  or  the 
VoUcsliicher  of  Germany,  afford  a  more  certain  indication  of  the 


THE   MIRACULOUS   IMAGE.  81 

respective  national  temperaments  and  tendencies  of  the  people 
of  those  countries,  than  the  corresponding  class  of  compositions 
in  Italy  of  that  which  interests  its  own  multitude.  In  Home  and 
Naples,  with  the  exception  of  many  popular  songs,  the  vulgar  lite 
rature  is  exclusively  religious.  With  that  of  Florence  I  am  not 
acquainted.  In  Venice,  a  new  element  develops  itself ;  at  least 
one-half  of  such  leaves  or  pamphlets  consisting  of  accounts  of 
noted  criminals,  or  historical,  supernatural,  or  humorous  sketches 
and  legends.  In  Bologna  and  Milan,  a  coarse,  vulgar  humour 
predominates.  The  titles  of  my  own  bundles  would  form  a 
chapter  interesting  enough  to  the  D' Israelis  of  literature. 

I  design  these  remarks  as  an  introduction  to  the  translation 
of  a  little  pamphlet  of  six  pages,  which  I  bought  in  the  Piazza 
di  San  Marco,  and  which  may  be  taken  as  a  characteristic  speci 
men  of  those  old-time  legends  which  even  yet  exert  such  an  in 
fluence  in  the  Catholic  Church. 


CHAPTER  THE  TWELFTH. 

HISTORICAL  RECORD  OF  THE  MIRACULOUS  IMAGE  OF  SANCTIS- 
SIMA  MARIA  DELLE  GRAZIE,  WHICH  MAY  BE  SEEN  IN  THE 
PAROCHIAL  CHURCH  OF  SAN  MARZIALE,  IN  VENICE. 

MANY  have  been  the  instances  of  love,  of  partiality,  and  pro 
tection,  which  the  city  of  Venice  has  experienced  from  the  most 
holy  MARY;  among  which  is  particularly  distinguished  that  which 
happened  in  the  year  1186,  as  an  ancient  and  authentic  tradition 
relates.  During  the  pontificate  of  Nicolas  IV.,  in  the  territory  of 
Rimini  lived  a  simple  shepherd,  named  RUSTICO,  devoted  to  the 
VIRGIN  MARY,  who,  having  one  day  conducted  his  sheep  to  pas 
ture,  while  resting  in  the  shade  of  a  wood,  noticed  the  trunk  of  a 
tree  in  which  nature  had,  as  it  were  jestingly,  roughly  expressed  a 
feminine  configuration.  Thinking  that  this  might  easily  be  made 
to  represent  the  holy  image  of  MARY,  he  began  to  carve,  and  in 
a  few  days  had  brought  the  work  nearly  to  perfection,  when  sud- 


82  SKETCH-BOOK   OF    ME,    MEISTER    KARL. 

denly  he  found  the  whole  spoiled;  and  the  good  man,  not  know 
ing  how  this  could  have  happened,  stood  in  grief  and  trouble, 
almost  on  the  point  of  desisting  from  the  undertaking,  when 
there  suddenly  appeared  before  him  two  youths,  who  at  once 
showed  him  a  method  by  which  he  might  still  complete  the  work 
designed.  Rustico,  not  recognising  them  at  first,  smiled  at  their 
words,  but  finally,  out  of  good  nature,  permitted  them  to  work 
upon  it,  which  they  accordingly  did,  and,  in  a  short  time,  per 
fected  the  majestic  and  much-to-be-venerated  image.  Then  he 
well  knew  that  they  could  not  be  other  than  two  angels  sent 
from  heaven,  who  at  once  enjoined  upon  him  that  he  should  carry 
the  image  to  the  bishop  of  the  city  and  the  governor,  and  tell 
them  the  will  of  the  VIRGIN  in  this  matter,  which  was,  that  it 
be  placed  in  a  boat  without  rudder,  and  left  to  swim  at  the  dispo 
sition  of  PROVIDENCE.  Of  which  the  bishop  being  informed, 
he  ordered  a  solemn  procession,  but  strove  to  evade  the  command, 
being  desirous  of  retaining  the  holy  image  and  placing  it  in  the 
cathedral  of  his  city ;  when — 0  wonderful  prodigy ! — the  statue 
became  so  heavy  and  immovable  that  they  were  obliged  to  desist 
from  the  resolution  taken,  and,  placing  it  in  a  little  boat,  left  it 
alone  for  out  at  sea,  on  which,  with  a  prosperous  gale,  and  ac 
companied  by  many  vessels  from  Rimini  filled  with  those  desirous 
of  witnessing  the  result,  it  floated  to  the  borders  of  our  lagune ; 
passing  which,  through  the  canal  called  Sacca  dclla  Mitericordia, 
it  bent  its  course  to  the  bank  of  the  church  of  San  Marziale, 
where  it  stopped.  Upon  which  stood  a  poor  blind  man,  with  his 
son,  who  was  dumb  from  his  birth;  and  the  pair  begged  alms 
from  those  passing  by.  But,  as  the  bark  drew  near  which  held 
the  miraculous  image,  the  tongue  of  the  son  was  loosened,  and 
he  bade  his  father  prostrate  himself  before  the  adorable  MARY, 
from  whom  he  would  receive  sight.  At  which* miracle  those 
present  were  greatly  astonished;  and  the  parish  priest  (il  Paroco) 
being  informed  thereof,  communicated  the  news  to  Bartolomeo 
Querini,  the  then  bishop,  who  ordered  them  to  bear  the  holy 
imajre  in  the  boat  to  the  cathedral,  which  the  Paroco  and  several 
priests  essayed  to  do,  but  were  hindered  by  a  renewal  of  the  same 
miracle  which  had  taken  place  in  Rimini.  Of  which  the  prelate 
being  informed,  and  the  will  of  MARY  recognised,  the  sacred 
image  was  raised  by  the  united  eiforts  of  Giovanni  Dandolo,  then 
•3ogc,  and  many  other  noblemen,  and  placed  in  tho  church  of 


THE    MIRACULOUS   IMAGE.  83 

San  Marziale,  to  receive  great  honour.  Many  were  the  acclama 
tions  and  the  thanks  rendered  up  by  all  the  people  for  the  bene 
fits  received  by  them,  every  day  on  which  they  assembled  to 
honour  the  sacred  image,  which  dispensed  benefits  and  favours  to 
such  a  degree  as  to  become  celebrated  throughout  Venice;  and 
whoever  desired  a  blessing  of  MARY,  sought  this  church  to 
obtain  it.  And  the  high  pontiffs,  moved  by  the  extraordinary 
prodigies  effected  by  GOD,  at  the  intercession  of  the  MOST  HOLY 
MARY,  enriched  the  said  church  with  various  indulgences; 
among  which,  Clement  XIV.  granted  plenary  indulgence  in  the 
year  1773,  beginning  on  the  day  of  the  twenty-fifth  of  June,  un 
til  the  ninth  of  July,  applicable  also  to  the  defunct. 

Nor  would  the  partiality  or  the  beneficence  of  MARY  have 
diminished  since  those  times,  had  the  eagerness  of  the  faithful  to 
honour  her,  and  celebrate  her  name,  been  greater  than  it  now  is. 

The  clergyman  of  said  church,  therefore,  desired  to  make 
known  the  history  of  that  miraculous  image,  and  thus  inspire  the 
Venetian  people  to  reverence  it.  Do  not  cease,  devotees  of 
MARY,  to  show  yourselves  such  to  her;  honouring  her  with 
your  devotion,  obtaining  with  your  offerings  the  greater  worship 
of  her  altar;  thus  exhibiting  by  your  piety  that  devotion  which 
has  so  much  distinguished  you  from  other  people. 

N.B.  All  our  ancient  chroniclers  speak  of  the  said  image,  and 
the  celebrated  Flaminio  Corner,  in  his  learned  Illustrations  of  the 
Venetian  Churches,  narrates  its  history.  There  are,  also,  yet 
in  our  church  authentic  pictures  of  the  Roman  school  of  the 
sixteenth  century,  which  represent  the  event  as  narrated;  and 
there  is,  also,  a  picture  of  the  same  age  of  the  Venetian  school, 
which  records  its  arrival. 

As  late  as  the  year  1839,  several  persons,  moved  by  tender 
devotion  for  the  Most  Holy  VIRGIN,  whose  undoubted  patronage 
they  had  experienced,  had  recourse  to  that  holy  image;  and  also 
an  entire  typographical  institute  has,  under  the  glorious  title  of 
S'a  Maria  delle  Grazie,  selected  her  as  protectress. 

PRAYER  TO  THE  VIRGIN  MARIA  DELLE  GRAZIE. 

"HOLY  MARY,  Mother  of  GOD,  and  always  Virgin,  who,  in  visiting  ELISA 
BETH,  didst  sanctify  the  Baptist  by  the  blessed  fruit  of  thy  womb,  JESUS;  grant 
that,  despising  earthly  things,  I  may  be  enabled  to  choose  thee  for  my  pro 
tectress  and  advocate,  and  may  my  mind  be  thus  sanctified  by  thy  presence.  I 
intend  faithfully  to  serve  thee,  and  through  thy  protection  to  love  and  honour 


84  SKETCH-BOOK   OF   ME,   MEISTER   KARL. 

thee,  as  thou  dost  love  and  honour  thy  divine  Sox.  I  pray  thee  to  receive  me 
into  the  number  of  thy  servants,  to  aid  me  in  all  my  actions  to  do  the  will  of 
GOD,  and  not  to  abandon  me  in  the  hour  of  my  death.  May  it  thus  be !" 


I  HAD  hoped  to  finish  the  sheet  and  the  evening  with  the 
above  prayer,  but,  being  disappointed,  will  briefly  inform  you, 
Reader,  on  the  bit  remaining,  that  the  gondoliers  of  Venice  are 
divided  into  two  factions,  termed  Castelli  and  Nicoletti ;  that 
they  are  still  the  confidants  of  half  the  love  intrigues,  and  con 
sequently  of  nearly  all  the  rascality  of  the  place ;  that  Venice, 
instead  of  rotting  into  its  canals,  is  a  bright,  lively  city,  doing  a 
good  business,  with  as  many  inhabitants  as  it  ever  had;  that 
Saint  Mark's  Place  is  infinitely  more  romantic  and  picturesque 
by  gas-light  than  during  the  day ;  and  that  in  the  City  of  Doges 
I  saw  fewer  pretty  women  than  in  any  other  town  in  Italy.  In 
confirmation  of  all  which,  permit  me  to  sing  you  the  following 
ditty,  which  I  find  accidentally  scribbled  on  the  last  page  of  this 
sheet,  and  which  was  doubtless  interpolated  by  Destiny  for  some 
good  purpose,  as  it  exactly  fills  the  leaf. 

"  Come  over  the  bourne,  BESSY,  to  me ! 
Her  boat  hath  a  leak, 
And  she  may  not  speak ; 
Oh,  she  dare  not  come  over  to  thee !" 

Kip-hurrah,  and  slopsasa! 

Through  mud  and  -water,  thick  and  thin, 

Go  roll  a  full-grown  hogshead  in. 

One,  two,  three,  for  luck  I  rap  it : 

Who  will  be  the  first  to  tap  it? 

He  was  glorious — down  went  he  ! 

Thou  art  glorious,  that  I  see; 

I  am  not,  but  soon  shall  be. 

And  as  he  knocked  around  the  bung, 

They  found,  alack  !  a  stave  was  sprung. 

0  Sacramento  ! — DOMINE  ! 

Now  who  will  save  my  wine  and  me  ? 

Out  came  the  liquor  with  a  run, 

And  drowned  the  brethren  every  one, 

Who,  floating  light  as  any  feather, 

Went  bobbing  round,  like  corks,  together. 


ALTERNATIONS.  85 


CHAPTER  THE  THIRTEENTH. 

ALTERNATIONS. 

I  CANNOT  tear  myself  loose  from  Venice.  My  head  still  wavers 
with  its  waters.  Time  and  tide  permitting,  I  should  in  this 
chapter,  after  lying  among  the  pots  of  the  world,  have  silvered 
up  a  little ;  like  a  duck,  have  taken  unto  myself  the  wings  of  the 
morning,  and  flown  to  the  outside-edge  of  the  Impossible.  Al 
ready  my  soul  hovered,  like  a  golden  star,  between  the  glowing 
morning-land  of  the  Past  and  the  dim  evening-land  of  the  Future. 
From  afar  rung  the  voices  of  the  rosy  hours.  I  was  within  an 
ace  of  the  beatified  vision — 

"  Fully  justified,  I 
Did  ride  through  the  sky, 

Nor  envied  ELIJAH  his  seat; 
Then  my  soul  mounted  higher 
In  a  chariot  of  fire, 

And  the  moon  it  was  under  my  feet !" 

(" Can  you  look  me  in  the  face — and  say — -tlie  sa-ame,  Jean- 
not?")  In  fact,  I  was  about,  in  a  Plotinian  ecstasy,  to  lose  my 
self  in  the  mystery  of  unintelligibility,  and  what  George  Sand 
calls  the  divinity  of  madness.  ("Moonlit  hours  were  made  for 
love.")  But  fortunately,  hearing  from  this  super-terrestrial  ele 
vation  the  voice  of  the  printer's  messenger  demanding  "copy," 
my  soul  at  once  drew  together  like  a  collapsed  bladder,  ("/ 
come  from  Alabama,  with  my  banjo  on  my  knee,")  folded  her 
wings  about  her,  and  slode  down  to  earth  as  sheepishly  (  Carlotta 
Grisi  Polka)  as  if  her  mistress  had  caught  her  coquetting  with 
a  chimney-sweep.  ("Thou,  thou  reignst  in  this  bosom") 


False  love,  and  hast  thou  played  me  thus, 

In  summer  among  the  flowers  ? 
I  will  repay  thee  back  again 

In  winter,  among  the  showers : 
Unless  again — again,  my  love, 

Unless  you  turn  again  : 
As  you  with  other  maidens  rove, 

I'll  rove  with  other  men. 


£6  SKETCH-BOOK   OF   ME,    MEISTER   KARL. 

"  Ala  eggamr  lou  yslyny 
Borzouh  ana  ma  aslah." 

Sae  wantonlie,  sae  dantonlie, 

Sae  rantonly  gaed  he, 
He  played  a  spring  and  danced  a  round 

Beneath  the  gallows-tree; 
lo  te  voglio  bene  asaai, 
E  tu  non  pienz'  a  me  : 
Last  nighte  the  queene  had  four  MARIES, 

To-nighte  she'll  have  but  three: 
There  was  MARY  SETOUN,  MARY  BEATOUN, 

MARIE  CAR-MICHAEL,  and  me. 
And  three  merry  men,  and  three  merry  men, 
And  three  merry  men  were  we." 

"/«  te  speravi 
Vous  la  voyez-vous  1'entendez, 

Vous  vous  croyez  bien  avec  ellc; 
Mais  pas  de  tout — parcoque  tout  a  coup, 

Elle  vous  fait  la  rebelle." — C'EST  MA  NINI. 

Deuce  take  that  fellow  with  his  Organ  !  You  comprehend, 
do  you,  that  since  I  have,  this  morning,  held  pen  in  hand, 
there  has  been  a  beggarly  Savoyard  beneath  the  window,  grinding 
out  all  manner  of  popular  airs,  and  inspiring  me,  associatively, 
with  all  manner  of  scrap  verses,  until  I  hardly  know  what  my 
paper  speaks.  Even  as  a  merrie  maiden,  borne  down  and  con 
quered  by  sleep,  ever  essayeth  to  talk  intelligibly,  and  still  uttereth 
the  holy  sleep-inspired  mystery,  profanely  termed  nonsense,  so 
have  I  striven,  but  all  in  vain,  against  the  benumbing  influence 
of  this  organic  fiend.  The  mischief  take  him,  with  his  brethren ! 
In  France  they  call  them  Orgucs  de  Barbarie,  from  the  barbarous 
manner  in  which  they  torment  gentlemen  trying  to  write.  Well, 
as  I  was  saying,  ("Allans,  enfans  de  la  Patrie!")  things  will 
turn  out  in  this  chapter,  probably  better  than  I  expected. 

"The  LORD  be  praised  ! 
I'm  much  amazed 

To  see  how  things  have  mended; 
Short-cakes  and  tea 
For  supper  you'll  see, 
Where  froth  and  gas  were  intended." 

How  one  train  of  thought  alternates  with  another ! 

One  evening,  after  a  glorious  pic-nic  to  the  Armenian  convent, 
and  a  glance  at  the  old  monk  who  had  been  Byron's  preceptor 
in  Oriental  tongues,  our  party  in  gondolas  were  gliding  silently 
among  the  canals,  and  past  the  churches  and  palaces  of  the  city, 


ALTERNATIONS.  87 

and,  as  the  moon  shone,  the  oars  plashed,  the  water  surged, 
while  cloudlets  went  floating  by  in  the  blue  heavens,  we  were  all 
very  happy  and  sentimental.  The  Wolf  had  just  narrated  his 
favourite  and  terrific  Venetian  legend  of  Professor  Nordenholm 
and  the  enchanted  elephant.  Young  C.  was  giving  Miss  Coralie 
a  brief  abstract  of  Schiller's  Ghost-seer,  while  the  Russian  gentle 
man  and  his  cousine  conversed  Jin  a  low  tone,  rapidly  and 
earnestly,  in  their  native  tongue;  the  subject  of  their  communica 
tions  being,  undoubtedly,  either  that  of  early  scenes  of  love, 
night,  and  beauty  in  their  own  distant  land,  or  the  last  card-party 
at  Marchesa  C/s.  At  last,  pretty  Miss  L.,  fairly  melting  with 
romance,  let  her  small,  white  hand,  sparkling  with  diamonds, 
trail  in  the  water,  while,  sinking  back,  she  sighed  forth  from 
Moore — 

"  On  such  a  blessed  night  as  this, 

I  often  think,  if  friends  were  near, 

How  we  should  feel  and  gaze  with  bliss 

Upon  the  moonlight  scenery  here." 

At  this  the  fat  old  gentleman  became  evidently  deeply  affected; 
I  could  see  a  tear  of  sentiment  steal  down  his  cheek,  as,  gazing 
at  the  moon,  he  quoted  from  Dr.  Johnson — 

"  The  Queen  of  Night 

Bound  us  pours  a  lambent  light; 
Light  that  seems  but  just  to  show 
Breasts  that  beat,  and  cheeks  that  glow." 

"  Vogue  la  Galere"  whispered  C.,  as  the  Chevalier  replied,  from 
the  Siege  of  Corinth — 

"'Tis  midnight:  o'er  the  distant  town, 
The  cold,  round  moon  shines  deeply  down  : 
Blue  roll  the  waters  ;  blue  the  sky 
Spreads  like  an  ocean  hung  on  high, 
Bespangled  with  those  isles  of  light, 
So  wildly,  spiritually  bright." 

We  are  all  moon-struck,  thought  I,  as  Mrs.  C.'s  gentle,  beautiful 
voice  came  in  from  Leigh  Hunt,  with — 

"And  the  clear  moon,  with  meek  o'erlifted  face, 
come  to  look  into  the  silvering  place  !" 


"Ha!  have  we  all   taken  lodgings  in  the  Rue  de  la  Lune!" 
cried  Coralie,  laughing,  and  then  carolling — 


Au  clair  de  la  Lune  !' 

8* 


88  SKETCH-BOOK    OP   ME,    MEISTER   KARL. 

Just  then  our  gondolas  swept  past  the  house  inhabited  by  our 
banker.  Extending  his  hands,  the  Wolf  exclaimed,  with  touch 
ing  pathos,  from  Shakspeare — 

"How  sweet  the  moonlight  rests  upon  the  BANK  !" 

"  Chut !"  cried  Coralie.  "  Zanetta  caret  mia"  she  continued, 
addressing  her  beautiful  and  silent  Venetian  friend,  "  can  you 
not  give  us  a  song  of  the  Laguncs?"  Without  coughing  or  apo 
logizing,  the  Siora  took  the  guitar  (every  pic-nic  has  a  guitar)  and 
sang  with  a  sweet,  expressive  voice,  in  Venetian — 

"Amor  si  xe  un  putelo, 
Ma  siestu  maledeto; 

Un  gran  birbon  ti  xe  : 
Mi  povero  gramma za, 
Tropo  mi  son  fidada : 
E  ti  ma  la  ficada, 

Come  che  va  a  la  fe". 

"  Ma  questo  xe  un  castigo, 
Lo  vedo  schieto  6  neto, 
Equesto  xe  un  efeto, 
De  la  mia  crudelta; 

"  Caveme  de  sto  intrigo, 
Caro  el  mio  caro  orbeto; 
Faro  mi  te  prometo, 
Quelo  che  ti  vora." 

As  her  voice  died  away  into  the  rustling  wavelets,  it  seemed  to 
me  that  life  had  never  before  seemed  so  bright  and  gentle — love, 
music,  and  flowers ! 

Suddenly  two  gondolas  shot  round  the  corner,  and  from  the 
one  pealed  forth,  with  hip-hurrah,  yells,  and  cries — 

"  G-g-go  it  while  you  're  young. 

F-f-for  when  you  get  old  you  ca-can't; 
Let  Scandal  hold  her  t-tongue, 
And  bid  dull  Care  avaunt! 

"  Last  night  I  was  out  late, 

The  truth  I  m-must  declare; 
This  morn'n,  I  don't  know  how, 

I  was  up  before  the  Mayor; 
Says  he,  '  Sir,  you've  had  your  fun, 

And  now  you  must  pay  for  't!' 
Says  I,  'Very  well,  Mister  Mayor, 

But  then  you  know  you  ought 
To'  ^ 

Chorus  by  the  entire  company  as  Mayor,  in  Lasso — 


ALTERNATIONS.  89 

"  '  Orter  icot !' " 

"  '  Ought  to — go  it — while  you're  young, 

For  when  yer  git  old  ye  can't; 
Let  Scandal  hold  her  tongue, 
And  bid  dull  Care  avaunt !' " 

While  from  the  other  came  a  mixed  accompaniment  of  "Row 
gently  here,  my  Gondolier,"  and  the  venerable  if  not  respectable 
air  of 

"  We  won't  go  home  till  morning, 
Till  daylight  doth  appear  !" 

"  This  is  infamous,  perfectly  infamous,"  cried  our  fat  little  old 
gentleman,  thus  rudely  awakened  from  his  sweet  reverie,  and 
poking  out  his  head  at  them. 

"Got  a  cigar,  old  fellow?"  screamed  one  of  the  convivialists. 

"  You  deserve  to  be  hung,"  retorted  the  little  man,  in  a  great 
fury.  To  which  the  party  in  full  chorus  replied  by  continuing 
their  song — 

"  Old  men  couldn't  go  it, 

Were  they  to  be  swung ; 
Their  looks  and  actions  show  it : 
So — go  it — while  you're  young  !" 

"  What  are  those  animals  ?"  inquired  the  Chevalier,  eyeing 
the  departing  gondolas  through  his  lorgnon. 

"  A  mixed  party  of  Gaiters  and  Universals  from  the  two  hotels," 
replied  C. 

"  Of  what  ?" 

"  Of  second-rate  English  and  Americans,"  answered  the  Wolf. 
"Yes — let  them  abuse  each  other  when  at  home  as  much  as 
they  will,  abroad  they  flourish  in  merry  fraternity  and  most  cor 
dially  unite  against  the  enemy — be  he  French,  Dutch,  or  Italian. 
Bless  your  hearts,  children  !  you  may  fight  and  scratch  occasion 
ally,  but  ye  are  brothers  after  all,  and  a  malediction  on  him  who 
would  estrange  your  hearts!  But  it's  a  pity  that  yonder  f rowdy ' 
party  should  be  the  representatives  of  such  a  number  of  the 
youthful  travellers  of  both  nations  \" 

"  They  appear  to  be  very  merry,"  exclaimed  Coralie,  with 
French  thoughtlessness.  "Je  n'aime  pas  mot,  la  tristesse  !  And 
if  I  were  a  gentleman,  I  would  be  among  them." 

"  If  they  were  gentlemen,  they  would  be  in  company  with 
Mademoiselle  Coralie,"  gallantly  replied  the  Chevalier. 

"Dieu!  que  vous  etes  gentil"  replied  the  Parisienne.     "What 


90  SKETCH    BOOK    OP    ME,    METSTER    KARL.  , 

an  ornament  you  are  to  a  gondola !  Is  it  necessary  to  embroider 
a  smoking-cap,  knit  you  a  purse,  work  you  slippers,  or  paint  you 
a  brigand  ?" 

"  I  will  accept  the  first  full  of  cigars,  the  second  of  bank-bills, 
the  third  with  your  feet  in  them,  and  have  the  fourth  painted  as 
myself — stealing  a  heart." 

"  What  a  delightful  creature  it  is  !"  replied  Coralie,  as  in  a 
soliloquy  j  "  always  merry,  playful,  innocent,  and  light-hearted. 
Oh,  monsieur,  were  you  educated  in  the  salons  of  Paris,  or 
brought  up  in  a  nursery  with  your  younger  sisters,  that  you  are 
at  the  same  time  so  naif  and  so  rusee?  Don't  you  know  that 
with  the  second  alone  you  can  always  obtain" — 

"What?  the  other  three?"  asked  the  Chevalier. 

11  Oh  no  !  their  equivalents." 

"  Any  thing  equal  to  Miss  Coralie  does  not  exist,"  was  the 
reply. 

And  he  turned  within  himself  (like  an  early  Quaker)  and  found 
bitterness  and  despair.  For  though  but  little  had  been  spoken, 
much  had  been  meant — and  understood. 

"Is  it  possible? — nothing  equal  to  poor,  small  me!  Far 
ceur  va!" 

And  muffling  her  neck  and  chin  in  her  velvet  cloak,  she  drew 
back  on  her  seat.  But  just  at  this  critical  instant  her  eye  glanced 
upward  at  the  Chevalier. 

It  was  but  a  little  glance — a  mere  fractional  glimpse — a  snap — 
a  gleam.  But  in  its  arch  deviltry,  its  merry  spiciness,  its  ultra 
intensity  of  smothered  laughter,  and  lastly,  not  leastly,  in  its 
friendliness  and  sympathy,  the  Chevalier  saw  whole  floods  of  radiant 
light — an  endless  apocalypse  of  golden  love.  Like  a  true  French 
girl,  Coralie  had  vexed  him  with  persiflage  and  indifference  until 
he  was  fairly  desperate,  and  then — then  came  the  delicious  re 
vulsion  ! 

Cowering  and  shrinking  up  in  her  cloak  like  a  frightened 
pigeon — glancing  out  at  him  over  its  upper  hem  like  an  eagle, 
yet  so  lovingly,  so  confidingly,  so  gently  withal,  and  convincing 
him,  even  in  the  instant  in  which  she  yielded,  of  her  ability  to 
wield  and  sway  the  heart,  and  to  soar  at  will  over  all  the  little 
ordinary  emotions  of  life,  or  dash  boldly  away  from  such  influ 
ences  at  the  very  instant  in  which  she  seemed  to  yield  to  their 
power. 


NUREMBERG.  91 

Reader — did  you  ever  see  such  a  glance  ?  or  such  a  French 
girl,  curiously  compounded  of  beauty,  dress,  tact,  good  heart,  and 
finesse  ? — NO  ? 


CHAPTER  THE   FOURTEENTH. 

NUREMBERG. 

NORINBERGA — Orbi  regna. 

STUDIOSUS  JOVIALIS,  1751. 

"  Oh  Niirnberg  du  edler  Fleck  ! 
Deiner  Ehrcn  Bolz  steckt  am  zweck. 
Den  hat  die  Weisheit  daran  geschlossen, 
Die  Wahrheit  ist  in  dir  entsprossen  !" 

PATER  ROSENBLUTH. 
Niirnberg's  Hand, 
Geht  durch  jeden  Land. 
Nuremberg's  hand 
Goes  through  every  land. 

OLD  GERMAN  PROVERB. 

"  THERE  is  much  to  be  done,  my  friends/'  said  I  to  my  tra 
velling  companions,  as  we  approached  that  "  Pompeii  of  the  Mid 
dle  Ages,"  Nuremberg. 

"  And  little  enough  time  to  do  it  in,"  replied  THE  WOLF, 
snapping  the  lid  of  his  meerschaum  like  a  pistol  lock,  "  even  if 
we  pass  a  year  in  yonder  colossal  old  curiosity-shop.  By  the  ghost 
of  Albert  Diirer  !  I  begin,  even  from  this  distance,  to  feel  as  the 
Spanish  adventurer  did,  when  he  landed  on  the  ancient  Atlantis 
Land  of  Saint  Brandon,  where  every  thing  was  exactly  five  cen 
turies  behind  time,  clocks  included.  They  say  that  all  the  sour- 
crout  in  Nuremberg  was  made  three  hundred  years  ago !" 

The  reader  who  remembers  the  feelings  of  Contarini  Fleming 
when  he  approached  Venice,  may  form  some  idea  of  my  own  sen 
sations  on  arriving  at  the  quaint  old  Gothic  city  of  Nuremberg; 
Gothic,  I  say,  though  that  learned  antiquarian,  Hippolyte  Fortoul, 
has  written  a  formidable  chapter  to  prove  that  it  has  nothing 
Ogival  about  it,  but  is,  on  the  contrary,  altogether  Romanesque. 
For  to  all  who  have  studied  the  history  and  philosophy  of  plastic 
and  literary  art  in  the  galleries,  libraries,  and  lecture-rooms  of 


92 


SKETCH-BOOK   OF   ME,   ME1STER   KARL. 


the  continent,  until  Du'rer  becomes  elevated  in  their  eyes  to  a 
German  Raphael,  and  till  the  honourable  names  of  Hans  Sachs, 
Veit  Stoss,  Peter  Vischer,  Pancras  Labenwolf,  and  Willibald 
Pirkheimer  are  familiar  to  their  ears  as  household  words,  Nu 
remberg  will  always  be  romantic — pointed-arched — and  very 
reverend. 

I  had  recently  qualified  myself  for  this  visit  by  a  tolerably 
thorough  course  of  Hoffman,  Tieck,  Scheffer,  and  other  romance 
writers,  who  have  done  their  best  to  set  forth  the  intense  queerity 
and  remarkable  romanticism  of  this  city.  So  that  in  the  first 
strokes  of  a  hammer  which  met  my  ears,  I  at  once  naturally  re 
cognised  the  blows  of  the  giant  apprentice  of  MEISTER  MARTIN  ; 
the  first  notes  of  a  song  resounding  from  a  beer-house  were  in 
the  sword-cut- measure  of  that  sweet  poet,  OLD  HOLLENFEUER; 
and  the  first  jeweller's  shop  which  I  beheld  at  once  occurred  to 
me  as  the  veritable  establishment  of  that  far-renowned  worker 
in  "orfeverie,"  WENZEL  JAMNISTER. 

I  expected  much  and  found  more.  Of  a  verity,  I  was  not  dis 
appointed.  My  geese  and  ugly  ducks  all  turned  out  to  be  swans, 
my  swans,  birds  of  Paradise,  and  my  birds  of  Paradise,  phoenixes. 
But  I  regret  and  shame  myself  to  say,  that  the  first  lion  visited 
was  neither  the  exquisite  Gothic  church  of  Saint  Sebaldus,  nor 
the  fairy-like  Schoenlrunnen,  or  "  beautiful  fountain,"  but  simply 
a  venerable  and  highly  respectable  ale-house.  For  that  incorri 
gible  beer-hen,  my  friend  and  ally,  WOLF  SHORT,  having  learned 
on  the  road,  from  a  travelling  student,  that  there  was  in  Nurem 
berg  a  remarkably  curious  Malt  Institute,  which  no  true  member 
of  the  ancient  and  honourable  Order  of  Good  Fellows  could  neglect 
without  risking  loss  of  reputation,  at  once  determined  on  looking 
it  up,  after  we  had  found  a  hotel  and  taken  dinner.  Nor  was 
the  place,  indeed,  without  interest,  it  having  been,  according  to 
our  informant's  account,  the  rendezvous  for  innumerable  centu 
ries,  if  not  aeons,  of  all  jovial  studios  and  artists,  in  passing 
through  the  city.  In  which  it  corresponded  to 

The  Cafe  del  Greco,  in  Rome, 

The  Wagner  Brei,  in  Munich, 

The  Cafe's,  Rotonde  and  Procope,  in  Paris, 

Auerbach's  Cellar,  in  Leipzig, 

Gast  Haus  zum  Ritter,  in  Heidelberg, 

Oestreichische  Brauerei,  in  the  same  city, 


NUREMBERG.  93 

Trattorie  del  Capelli,  in  Venice, 

The  Cafe  Doney,  in  Florence, 

And  many  more,  which,  as  Panurge  said,  when  he  spoke  high 
German,  would  weary  me  to  repeat,  and  yourself  to  listen  to. 
But  this  beer-house,  to  which  the  Wolf  insisted  on  taking  me, 
was  called  the  JAMMER-THAL,  or  Yale  of  Misery, — a  highly 
promising  and  cheerfully  encouraging  title  or  sign  for  any  house 
of  entertainment  whatever.  But  it  derives  its  name  from  the 
fact  that  the  original  public  room  of  the  establishment,  in  which 
the  guests  were  wont  to  make  merry,  is  so  remarkably  small,  that 
it  is  with  difficulty  that  more  than  four  persons  can  find  room 
around  the  little  table  in  its  centre.  Of  late  years,  owing  to  a 
greatly  increased  run  of  custom,  attracted  by  the  superior  quality 
of  his  brew,  the  proprietor  has  enlarged  his  ideas,  and  now  re 
ceives  guests  in  an  adjoining  room,  capable  of  holding  about 
two  hundred.  A  similar  establishment,  differing,  however,  in 
the  size  of  its  rooms,  and  which,  for  some  unknown  reason,  must 
also  be  visited,  bears  the  name  of  HIMMELS-LEITER,  or  Jacob's 
Ladder. 

Having  performed  these  important  duties,  I  had  time  to  cast 
my  eyes  about  me  and  learn  something  of  the  town.  I  know  not 
how  often  I  have  had  occasion  during  my  life,  when  speaking  of 
Romanesque  or  Gothic  objects,  to  employ  such  adjectives  as 
"odd,"  " quaint,"  " weird,"  "strange/'  "wild,"  "freakish," 
"antique,"  and  "irregular;"  but  I  am  very  certain  that  if  they 
could,  according  to  my  good  old  friend  JUSTINUS  KERNER'S  idea 
of  experiences,  be  concentrated  or  monogrammatized  into  a  single 
word,  it  would  be  exactly  the  one  needed  to  describe  the  rare  old 
town  of  Nuremberg.  There  is  a  picturesque  disorder — a  lyrical 
confusion — about  the  entire  place,  which  is  perfectly  irresistible. 
Turrets  shoot  up  in  all  sorts  of  ways,  on  all  sorts  of  occasions, 
upon  all  sorts  of  houses ;  and  little  boxes,  with  delicate  Gothic 
windows,  cling  to  their  sides  and  to  one  another  like  barnacles  to 
a  ship  ;  while  the  houses  themselves  are  turned  around  and  about 
in  so  many  positions,  that  you  wonder  that  a  few  are  not  upside 
down,  or  lying  on  their  sides,  by  way  of  completing  the  original 
arrangement  of  no  arrangement  at  all.  It  always  seemed  to  me 
as  if  the  buildings  in  Nuremberg  had,  like  the  furniture  in,  Ir 
ving' s  tale,  been  indulging  over  night  in  a  very  irregular  dance, 
and  suddenly  stopped  in  the  most  complicated  part  of  a  confusion 


94  SKETCH-BOOK   OF    ME,    MEISTEIl    KARL. 

worse  confounded.  Galleries,  quaint  staircases,  and  towers,  with 
projecting  upper  stories,  as  well  as  eccentric  chimneys,  demented 
doorways,  insane  weather-vanes,  and  highly  original  steeples,  form 
the  most  commonplace  materials  in  building;  and  it  has  more 
than  once  occurred  to  me,  that  the  architects  of  this  city,  even  at 
the  present  day,  must  have  imbibed  their  principles,  not  from  the 
lecture-room,  or  the  works  of  Vitruvius,  Hope,  Whewell,  Berty, 
Hiibsch,  or  Baumgartner,  but  from  the  most  remarkable  inspira 
tions  of  some  romantic  scene-painter.  During  the  last  two  cen 
turies,  men  appear  to  have  striven,  with  a  most  uncommendable  zeal, 
all  over  Christendom,  to  root  out  and  extirpate  every  trace  of  the 
Gothic.  In  Nuremberg  alone,  they  have  religiously  preserved 
what  little  they  originally  had  in  domestic  architecture,  and  added  to 
it  (of  late  years  especially)  with  so  much  earnestness,  that  Monsieur 
Fortoul,  after  declaring  that  the  private  houses  of  this  city  ex 
hibit  few  or  no  traces  of  ancient  Gothicism,  adds — "  But,  recently, 
they  scatter  pointed  arches  in  their  fagadcs,  and  put  them  even 
into  dormer  windows,  to  such  an  extent  that,  if  you  should  chance 
to  visit  Nuremberg  ten  years  hence,  you  will  find  the  Gothic 
everywhere,  and  perhaps  feel  inclined  to  accuse  me  of  indulging 
in  false  assertions/' 

One  of  the  most  exquisite  artistic  features  which  greets  the 
eye  of  the  stranger  in  Nuremberg  is  the  profusion  of  statues, 
and,  indeed,  of  sculptured  ornament  of  every  description,  which  is 
lavished  with  unsparing  hand,  often  in  the  oddest  and  most  un 
expected  situations.  Among  the  former,  we  must  cite  ninny 
beautiful  Madonnas  of  the  Middle  Ages.  Throughout  Southern 
Germany  and  Italy,  there  is  indeed  no  work  of  Art  which  more 
frequently  attracts  our  attention,  but  there  are  few  places  where 
we  so  frequently  behold  it  developed  in  such  grace  and  purity  as 
in  Nuremberg.  "The  superior  workmanship  of  these  figures," 
says  Mrs.  Jameson,  in  an  article  on  "The  Nuremberg  Ma 
donnas,"  "show  the  influence  of  that  excellent  school  of 
Art  which  flourished  at  Nuremberg  during  the  fourteenth, 
fifteenth,  and  down  to  the  middle  of  the  sixteenth  century; — 
the  period  in  which  Schonhofer,  Peter  Vischer,  Beham,  Burg- 
maier,  Adam  Kraft,  Albert  Diirer,  and  many  admirable  artists 
with  less  celebrated  names,  lived  and  worked,  and  gave  to 
this  particular  school  that  strong  impress  of  individuality,  truth 
fulness,  and  deep  feeling,  which  make  amends  for  the  want 


NUREMBERG.  95 

of  knowledge  in  some  instances,  and  the  want  of  grace  in 
others." 

But  I  leave  to  Mrs.  Jameson  the  task  of  setting  forth  the  ar 
tistic  merits  of  these  exquisite  productions.  What  /  propose  to 
narrate  regarding  one  of  them  savours  rather  of  legendary  Art. 
I  will  preach  criticism  and  aesthetics,  friend  reader,  with  any  one ; 
but  let  me  once  get  scent  of  a  legend  or  an  old  ballad,  and  I  bolt 
at  once  from  the  track,  and,  until  the  game  is  fairly  run  down,  can 
only  be  found  careering  over  the  cloudy  fields  of  Fantasie. 

"Long,  long  ago,  it  was  proposed  by  the  Council  of  the  goodly 
city  of  Nuremberg  to  erect  a  statue  to  Our  Lady,  which,  by  its 
superior  beauty,  should  bring  great  honour  to  them,  and  raise  in 
all  hearts  great  wonder  and  love.  Thereto,  they  bade  it  be  pro 
claimed  that,  on  a  certain  day,  inspection  would  be  held  of  such 
images  or  carved  effigies  of  OUR  LADY,  the  Mother  of  God,  as 
might  be  brought  before  them, — the  artist,  in  every  case,  to  re 
ceive  from  the  public  treasury  befitting  reward  and  aidauce. 
The  said  effigies  to  be  made,  at  the  carver's  good- will,  from 
stone,  ivory,  metal,  or  woods  reliquary  and  consecrated,  (ex  lignis 
tnirabilibusJ) 

"Now  there  was  lately  deceased  in  sleep,  in  the  city  of  Nurem 
berg,  a  maiden  of  rarest  beauty,  named  LIDA  VON  VELDENSTEIN, 
well  known  for  her  great  love  to  all  things  holy,  and  especially 
for  her  constant  and  loving  service  to  the  Sweet  Mother  of  God, 
ever  affirming  that  the  only  wish  of  her  heart,  and  the  only 
thought  of  her  life,  was  in  some  degree  to  resemble  that  Most 
Serene  Soul  and  Pure  Sea  of  Sanctity,  OUR  LADY,  deemfng  all 
time  lost  not  spent  in  her  gentle  service,  and  desiring  only  by 
her  death  to  promote  her  glory  on  earth,  having  often  affirmed 
to  her  friends  that  it  had  been  revealed  to  her  that,  even  after 
her  departure  from  life,  she  would  on  earth  effect  pious  works 
among  men. 

"And  on  the  day  appointed  there  appeared,  among  other  com 
petitors,  a  stranger  of  noble  bearing,  who  submitted  to  the 
Council  a  stone  image  of  the  HOLY  MOTHER  of  such  rare  and 
exquisite  beauty  that  no  question  was  held  of  its  superiority. 
Thereon  they,  the  Councillors,  thanking  God,  bade  the  artist  re 
ceive  his  reward;  which  he  did  there  refuse,  bidding  them  be 
stow  it,  for  the  honour  of  OUR  LADY,  on  the  poor.  And  then 
forthwith  departed. 


96  SKETCH-BOOK   OP   ME,    MEISTER   KARL. 

'*<Nor  had  he  been  long  gone,  ere  it  was  strangely  reported 
that  the  statue  in  all  its  features  was  identical  with  the  lately- 
departed  maiden,  Lida  von  Veldenstein;  differing  in  no  wise 
cither  in  face  or  figure,  save  that  indeed  a  beauty  of  sanctity  now 
rested  on  all,  which  no  earthly  form  hath  ever  retained.  And 
search  being  made  in  the  tomb,  the  body  of  Lida  von  Velden- 
stein  was  indeed  wanting,  there  remaining  only  the  death-gar 
ment  in  which  it  had  been  enfolded.  But  around  the  statue 
was  a  mantle  in  no  wise  the  same. 

"From  that  day  forth  it  hath  been  commonly  reported  that 
this  image  of  THE  MOTHER  or  GOD  was  of  a  truth  none  other 
than  the  body  of  the  maiden  LIDA,  who,  for  her  great  goodness, 
had  been  indeed  transformed  to  the  likeness  of  HER  whom  she 
so  loved  to  imitate,  and  whom  by  her  beauty,  given  of  God,  she 
now  honoured  even  after  death.  And  this  statue  is  the  same 
which  now  stands  upon  the  house  of  that  upright  man,  JOHANNES 
VON  ROHRBACH,  who  dwellcth  in  the  Binder-Gasse  of  the  an 
cient  and  notable  city  of  Nuremberg." 

NUREMBERG,  like  Avignon,  is  one  of  the  very  few  cities 
which  have  retained  in  an  almost  perfect  state  the  feudal  walls 
and  turrets  with  which  they  were  invested  by  the  Middle  Ages. 
At  regular  intervals  along  these  walls  occur  little  towers,  for 
their  defence,  reminding  one  of  beads  strung  on  a  rosary ;  the 
great  watch-tower  at  the  gate,  with  its  projecting  machicolation, 
forming  the  pendant  cross,  the  whole  serving  to  guard  the  town 
within  from  the  dangers  of  war,  even  as  the  rosary  protects  the 
city  of  Mansoul  from  the  attacks  and  strategies  of  Sin  and  Death 
— though,  sooth  to  say,  since  the  invention  of  gunpowder  and 
the  Reformation,  both  the  one  and  the  other  appear  to  have  lost 
much  of  their  former  efficacy.  Directly  through  the  centre  of 
the  town  runs  a  small  stream,  called  the  Pegnitz,  "  dividing  the 
town  into  two  nearly  equal  halves,  named  after  the  two  great 
churches  situated  within  them ;  the  northern  being  termed  Saint 
Sebald's,  and  the  southern,  St.  Laurence's  side." 

In  the  northern  part  of  the  division  of  Saint  Sebaldus  rises  a 
high  hill,  formed  at  the  summit  of  vast  rocks,  on  which  is  situ 
ated  the  ancient  Reichsveste,  or  Imperial  Castle,  whose  origin 
is  fairly  lost  in  the  dark  old  days  of  Heathenesse.  From  it  the 
traveller  can  obtain  an  admirable  view  of  the  romantic  town  be- 


NUREMBERG.  97 

low.  In  regarding  it,  I  was  irresistibly  reminded  of  the  remark 
able  resemblance  existing  between  most  of  its  buildings  and  the 
children's  toys  manufactured  by  the  ingenious  artisans  of  Nurem 
berg  and  its  vicinity.  In  one  squab  little  mansion,  capped  with 
peaked  tower  and  eye-like  windows,  I  distinctly  recognised  the 
original  model  of  a  fascinating  little  vermilion-coloured  edifice 
which  had,  long  years  ago,  well-nigh  thrown  me  into  a  convulsion 
of  delight  when  first  extracted  one  Christmas  morning  from  the 
Krisskingle  stocking;  while  a  circular  building  of  modern  date, 
with  a  primrose  roof,  had  evidently  been  formed  after  the  same 
model  as  a  certain  "round  tower  of  other  days"  with  which  I 
had  whilom  delighted  my  juvenile  optics.  Well  do  I  remember 
that  "jolly  round  house/7  whose  door  on  opening  displayed  to 
the  astonished  vision  a  wooden  young  lady  with  a  very  short 
waist,  holding  over  her  bonnetless  head,  with  commendable  per 
pendicularity,  an  opened  parasol;  while  by  her  side  an  aged,  but 
(to  judge  from  a  red  feather  which  grew  from  the  centre  of  her 
head)  apparently  respectable  female,  was  busily  engaged  in  roast 
ing  a  goose  at  a  fire,  consisting  of  three  glowing  strips  of  tinsel. 
It  was  a  mooted  question  with  Lady  Bulwer,  as  to  whether  Shak- 
speare  was  born  to  write  for  Charles  Kean,  or  Charles  Kean  to 
act  Shakspeare;  and  I  for  my  part  am  unable  to  decide  whether 
the  Dutch  toy-makers  of  Nuremberg  obtain  their  designs  from 
its  architects,  or  whether  the  architects  copy  after  their  toys. 

One  of  the  most  striking  portions  of  the  Imperial  Castle  is  the 
Heidenthurm,  or  Heathen  Tower,  so  called  from  several  very 
singular  carved  figures  upon  it,  which  served  as  idols  previous  to 
the  introduction  of  Christianity.*  This  tower  contains  two  re 
markably  interesting  old  chapels,  in  the  Romanesque  or  transition 
style  of  architecture,  one  of  which,  called  the  Chapel  of  Saint 
Margaret,  dates  from  the  ninth  or  tenth  century.  Its  massy 
columns,  short  and  bulky,  readily  bring  us  back  to  the  time  when 
the  heavy  force  of  the  Dark  Ages  was  not  as  yet  lost  in  the  more 
romantic  grace  of  a  subsequent  era.  There  is  something  in 
credible,  mysterious,  and  Cyclopean  in  every  part  of  this  castle. 
They  may  tell  us,  if  they  will,  that  Conrad  the  First,  the  last 
emperor  of  the  blood  of  Charlemagne,  founded  the  pile;  but 


*  For  a  more  accurate  description  of  these  "idols,"  vide  Heideloff's  "  Orna 
ments  of  the  Middle  Ages." 


98  SKETCH-BOOK    OF    ME,    MEISTEtt    KARL. 

there  is  a  fearful,  giant-like  air  in  the  immense  stones  of  which 
it  is  formed,  "seeming  to  rival  the  rocks  upon  which  they  are 
placed,"  which  gives  the  lie  to  history  when  it  asserts  them  to  be 
the  erections  of  ordinary  mortals.  Like  the  fearful  caves  of  the 
antique  Cimmerians,  which  the  traveller  beholds  about  Naples, 
they  whisper  of  far-off  busy  races  long  since  passed  away  in  the 
early  morning-time,  when  there  were  giants  in  the  world.  The 
images  of  the  grim  old  idols  on  the  Heathen  Tower  contribute 
not  a  little  to  the  feeling  of  antiquity  and  mystery  which  the 
place  inspires.  Relics  of  a  long-forgotten  and  wild  religion,  what 
deities  or  demons  do  ye  represent? — Are  ye  TSCIIERNOBOG,  the 
God  of  Death  and  Sin,  or  BJELBOG,  the  Divinity  of  Light  and 
Joy?  Or  Zslotababa,  the  Golden  Wife,  or  Makosch  or  Woloss — 
"Bog  chranitel  skota  u  drevnih  slavyan" — "the  protector  of 
domestic  animals  among  the  antique  Sclavi?"*  Or  Daschba, 
the  God  of  Wealth,  or  the  sweetly  named  Dshidshislado,  the 
gentle  Goddess  of  Love !  Or  Gonda,  or  Korscha,  or  Gordoaitis, 
or  Ligitschios,  or  Goniglidewos,  or  Koljada,  or  Rodomuessl,  or 
Rugewith,  or  Swantevnd,  the  highest  of  all  ?  Perhaps,  old  Idol, 
I  aim  too  high.  Wert  thou  Simeryla,  the  mild  Goddess  of 
Spring,  or  Krodo,  the  Sclavonic  Saturn?  What,  lower  still! 
Confound  you,  then,  were  you  Kremara,  the  Lithuanian  God  of 
Swine?  No  answer — the  oracles  are  dumb,  and  Baal  refuseth 
to  answer.  Interrogate  the  past,  0  traveller,  and  see  what  you'll 
get  by  it !  As  much  as  nothing.  "  I  walked  through  the  gloomy 
halls  of  my  ancestors — they  were  shabby  and  desolate.  I  cried 
aloud,  'The  friends  of  my  youth,  where  are  they?'  and  echo  an 
swered  and  said — 'Really,  I  don't  know!"' 

The  chapel  of  the  castle  is  highly  interesting,  being  probably 
one  of  the  earliest  specimens  of  Romanesque  Art  in  Germany. 
It  has  the  square  form  of  the  first  churches  which  the  Greeks 
constructed  on  the  model  of  the  Pagan  temples.  Four  columns, 
of  great  height,  placed  in  the  centre  of  the  hall,  divide  it  into 
three  parts,  and  support  the  bases  of  nine  arches,  without  mould 
ings;  while  the  choir,  placed  at  the  extremity  of  the  plan  of  the 
chapel,  forms  out  of  it  a  square  projection  equal  to  the  space 


*  The  reader  learned  in  Mythology  will  excuse  the  liberties  I  have  taken. 
The  influence  of  the  Sclavic  Mythology  was,  however,  very  great  in  this  region 
(par  ex.  Tschernobog,  or  Zerneboch)— though  not  to  the  extent  here  imagined. 


NUREMBERG.  99 

comprised  between  the  four  columns ;  and  a  very  irregular  tri 
bune,  supported  by  two  enormous  pillars,  opens  in  the  face  of  the 
choir  to  the  interior  apartments.  For  many  of  the  ornaments  in 
these  chapels,  as  well  as  in  other  parts  of  Nuremberg,  the  reader 
may  consult  Heideloff's  Architectural  Ornaments  of  the  Middle 
Ages — one  of  the  most  exquisite  works  in  existence.  A  church, 
precisely  similar  in  every  respect  to  this  chapel,  is  said  to  exist 
on  the  Bohemian  frontier,  in  the  little  town  of  Egra,  where 
Charles  the  Fifth,  and  subsequently  Wallenstein,  once  encamped. 

But,  reader  mine,  ere  we  leave  this  Castle  Chapel,  let  me  first 
narrate  a  gossiping  old  legend  of  the  Middle  Ages,  which  has 
floated  and  hummed  around  it  for  many  a  century.  There  are 
many  strange  old  stories  extant  in  Nuremberg,  and  this  is  one  of 
them.  But  ere  I  tell  my  legend,  let  me  first  beg  of  you  to 
glance  at  those  four  slender  pillars,  and  observe  on  one  of  them 
an  iron  ring.  Good ! — you  see  it  ?  And  now,  over  the  arch  be 
fore  the  altar  you  see  carved  in  the  stone  a  human  head.  And 
thereby  hangs  a  tale. 

When  the  castle  was  building, — far  back  in  the  days  of  King 
Conrad,  says  my  chronicler, — there  came  the  Devil  to  inspect 
the  work,  and  do  what  harm  he  could.  And  he  nosed  and 
poked  around  (sit  verbo  venial*)  until  he  saw  the  fat  and  jolly 
priest  who  was,  for  the  time,  Castle  Chaplain.  And  with 
the  sight  came  a  vehement  and  inexpressible  longing  for  the 
soul  of  that  clergyman.  It  was  a  case  of  incurable  love  at 
first  sight. 

"Have  thee  I  must,"  thought  SIR  URIAN.  Now  Sir  Urian 
is  The  Old  Scratch;  and  The  Old  Scratch,  as  you  all  know,  is 
the  Devil.  So,  without  more  ado,  he  went  at  once  to  the  chap 
lain,  and,  with  an  irresistible  leer,  smoothing  his  hand  over  his 
chin,  declared,  with  a  pleasing  naivete,  that  he  would  fain  have 
his  soul — or,  at  least,  the  refusal  of  it. 

Now  the  chaplain  was  a  man  of  singular  piety — very  singular, 
indeed,  if  we  may  believe  the  legend;  for,  instead  of  fleeing  the 
Evil  One,  he  at  once  resolved,  if  possible,  to  flay  him — or,  at 
least,  "draw  the  wool  over  his  eyes."  So,  without  fear,  he 
replied — 

"Salve,  Sathanas!  Nothing  for  nothing  is  goodly  wisdom. 
Give  thee  my  soul  I  may  not,  sell  it  I  will  not.  But,  behold, 
there  are  yet  wanting  four  columns  to  this  most  admirable  chapel; 

9* 


100  SKETCH-BOOK    OF    ME,    METSTER    KARL. 

and  if  thou  canst  hew,  cut,  shape,  and  duly  set  in  place  those 
four  columns  ere  I  have  finished  reading  a  mass,  then  I  am  thine, 
even  to  the  soles  of  my  last  year's  sandals. " 

The  one  who  rejoiced  at  hearing  this  speech  was  the  Devil. 
"Monsieur  cst  lien  Ion,"  quoth  he.  "Let  us  begin.  Midnight 
is  at  hand." 

"Quickly  stood  the  first  column  in  its  place,"  says  the  chro 
nicle.  "At  the  Credo,  lo!  there  was  the  second,  and,  at  the 
JEvangelium,  the  third.  But  while  the  Enemy  was  coming  up, 
bringing  the  fourth  under  his  arm,  the  priest  roared  out,  giving 
the  desk  a  most  orthodox  thump — 

"!TE  MISSA  EST!" 

These  are  the  concluding  words  of  tbe  Roman  mass,  and 
signify,  "Get  along  with  you!"  And  Satan  did  get  along.  Out 
he  thundered,  amid  smoke  and  yells,  white  fire,  the  rattling  of 
copper  sheets,  and  the  roar  of  Chinese  gongs,  the  clanking  of 
trace-chains,  and  the  shouts  of  supernumeraries,  as  he  has  been 
accustomed  to  do  from  time  immemorial.  And  while  departing, 
in  his  rage  he  dashed  down  the  pillar,  which  broke  in  twain 
with  a  mighty  and  solemn  clang.  But  the  priest  had  it  mended. 

That  jovial  head,  carved  on  the  arch,  is  an  excellent  likeness 
of  the  fearless  chaplain;  and  the  iron  ring  indicates  the  spot 
where  the  broken  pillar  was  joined  together. 

In  another  part  of  the  castle  there  is  a  suite  of  rooms,  em 
ployed  as  a  picture-gallery.  Here,  in  place  of  the  original,  the 
visitor  may  see  the  copy  of  the  portrait  of  ALBERT  DURER,  so 
singularly  stolen,  not  many  years  ago,  by  an  artist-thief.  While 
in  Munich,  I  had  frequently  admired,  in  its  Royal  Gallery,  the 
beautiful,  Christ-like  portrait  of  Diirer,  painted  by  himself  on 
panel.  This  picture  was  originally  in  the  Castle  of  Nuremberg; 
but  a  certain  scamp  (though  a  first-rate  artist  withal)  named 
KUFFER  (or  Cooper)  having  obtained  permission  to  copy  it,  did 
the  thing  so  neatly,  that  the  most  practised  eye  could  scarcely 
have  detected  any  difference  "between  his  portrait  or  th'  origi 
nal."  Which  done,  Herr  Kiiffer,  acting  on  the  principle  of 
exchange  being  no  robbery,  sawed  out,  'on  the  sly,  the  "  genuine 
Albert,"  and,  neatly  inserting  his  own  copy,  went  off  with  the 
original  to  Munich,  and  sold  it  to  King  Louis  (the  Lola  Moiitttz 


NUREMBERG.  101 

monarch)  for  five  hundred  and  fifty  florins,  or  two  hundred  and 
twenty  dollars — a  cheap  enough  price,  even  for  stolen  goods. 

In  this  gallery  are  many  curious  old  German  paintings,  flip 
pantly  described  by  that  most  treacherous  of  all  guide-books  for 
the  true  scholar,  John  Murray,  as  "a  heap  of  rubbish;"  but 
which  the  learned  and  keen-witted  KUGLER  finds  remarkably 
curious,  as  illustrating  in  many  instances  the  sharp  and  formal 
design  of  the  early  Norimbergian  school,  and  wonders  "that 
these  documents ,  which  are  of  such  importance  in  the  history 
of  the  development  of  Art,  (Entivicklungsgeschichte  der  Kunst^) 
should  have  attracted  so  little  attention  among  the  learned  in 
Nuremberg."  Among  others  we  may  notice  an  exquisite  Cruci 
fixion,  by  ALBRECHT  ALTDORFER,  an  artist  of  whom  it  has  been 
truly  said,  that  "  he  blended  the  wild  and  fantastic  element  of 
his  own  time  with  the  richest  and  loveliest  spirit  of  Poesy, 
developing  both  in  a  bloom  of  Romance,  the  like  of  which  can 
be  found  in  no  other  artist."  Those  who  are  acquainted  with 
the  genius  of  this  artist,  though  only  from  his  copper-plate  en 
gravings,  will  bear  witness  that  this  tribute  to  his  genius  is  not 
exaggerated. 

The  stiff  and  harsh,  but  at  times  fantastic  paintings  of  HANS 
BURKMAYER — the  friend,  and,  it  is  said,  pupil  of  Diirer — which 
abound  in  this  gallery,  are  also  not  without  interest.  A  certain 
solemn  dignity  in  his  countenances  not  unfrequently  elevates  us, 
in  contemplating  them,  to  a  lofty  and  romantic  state  of  mind.  I 
also  noted  works  by  Hans  Holbein,  Wohlgemuth,  and  Joachim 
von  Sandrart,  which  well  repaid  attention  and  study. 

In  the  courtyard  of  the  castle  are  two  curiosities  worth  notice, 
the  one  being  a  lime-tree,  said  to  be  planted  by  Queen  Kune- 
gonda,  and  which,  at  four  feet  from  the  ground,  measures  fifteen 
feet  in  circumference  j  and  the  other,  an  ancient  well,  three  hun 
dred  and  eighteen  feet  in  depth. 

In  descending  from  the  Burg  or  Castle,  "  where  the  Art  of 
the  Middle  Ages  is  mingled  with  ancient  Greek  and  Roman 
forms,"  the  traveller  should  stop  at  St.  Sebaldus.  This  church 
has  been  keenly  abused  by  more  than  one  architectural  critic; 
yet,  notwithstanding  their  antiquarian  fury,  the  traveller,  whose 
eye  is  trained  rather  to  picturesque  effect  than  architectural 
purism,  will,  with  his  guide-book,  be  quite  willing  to  pronounce 
it  "an  extremely  beautiful  Gothic  edifice,  exhibiting  great  ele- 


102  SKETCH-BOOK   OF   ME,    MEISTER   KARL. 

gance,  externally  and  internally,  especially  in  the  choir."  Reader 
mine,  how  little  would  there  be  to  enjoy  in  this  world,  if  we 
limited  our  admiration  solely  to  that  which  is  perfectly  and  abso 
lutely  correct.  But  whatever  defects  there  may  be  in  the  building 
of  this  church,  they  are  all  amply  atoned  for  by  the  exquisite 
ornaments  with  which  it  is  profusely  decorated, — its  principal  at 
traction  being  the  celebrated,  I  might  say  world-renowned,  Taber 
nacle  or  Shrine  of  Saint  Sebaldus,  which  stands  in  the  centre  of 
the  church — albeit,  the  congregation  is  now  no  longer  Catholic 
but  Lutheran.  "It  is  the  masterpiece  of  the  distinguished 
artist,  PETER  VISCHER,  (b.  1460,  d.  1529,)  who  was  assisted  in 
its  construction  by  his  five  sons ;  he  employed  upon  it  thirteen 
years  of  labour,  and  finished  it  in  1519." 

But  the  traveller  who  would  behold  a  crowning  glory  of  this 
variety  of  Gothic  art  should  repair  to  the  Church  of  Saint  Lau 
rence,  and,  after  admiring  its  exquisite  many-hued  windows, 
said  to  be  among  the  finest  in  the  world,  study  its  chief  attrac 
tion,  also  a  shrine,  but  of  stone  instead  of  bronze,  by  the  world- 
renowned  ADAM  KRAFT.  A  similar  work  by  the  same  artist 
had  long  since  delighted  me  in  the  Cathedral  of  Ulm,  but  this 
far  transcends  it  in  purity  of  style  and  incredible  fertility  of 
ornament.  For  the  Shrine  of  St.  Sebaldus,  Peter  Vischer,  we 
are  told,  was  "miserably  paid;"  and  the  maker  of  this  wonderful 
triumph  of  Art  died  in  his  native  town — in  a  hospital ! 

Throughout  Europe  there  are  but  few  monuments  of  Gothic 
Art  which  can  be  compared  to  this  wonderful  Sacraments- 
HamUin,  or  repository  for  the  Sacred  Wafer.  In  all  the  bold 
ness  of  beauty,  it  soars  before  us  to  a  height  of  sixty-four  feet — 

"  Like  the  foamy  sheaf  of  fountains  rising  through  the  painted  air." 

So  wonderful  is  the  skill  displayed  in  this  "  sanctuary,"  and 
so  elaborate  its  finish,  that  it  has  been  said  to  be  executed  with 
a  minuteness  more  commonly  bestowed  on  ivory  than  on  stone. 
And  so  lithely  and  gracefully  do  its  joints  and  little  buttresses 
bend  and  wind,  and  so  light  and  plastic  are  all  its  ornaments, 
"that  many  have  doubted  whether  it  really  is  stone,  supposing  it 
to  be  formed  of  plaster  moulded }  which,  however,  is  clearly 
ascertained  not  to  be  the  case." 

"This  Tabernacle,"  says  a  French  tourist,  "less  resembles  a 
work  of  Art  than  a  wild,  luxuriant,  climbing  plant,  which, 


NUREMBERG.  103 

taking  root  in  the  pavement,  and  accidentally  meeting  a  support, 
rises  to  the  roof;  casting  out  in.  its  flight  the  most  capricious 
and  beautifully-fantastic  forms.  The  entire  monument,  in  its 
elaborate  beauty,  is  like  an  immense  piece  of  splendid  Old- 
German  jewelry." 

"But  oh,  my  fancie,  whither  wilte  thou  goe?"  Reader,  where 
shall  we  next  wander  in  Nuremberg,  among  its  wealth  of  Gothic 
imagery  ?  Wouldst  see  the  SCHOENER  BRUNNEN,  or  Beautiful 
Fountain  ? 

"Everywhere  thou  seest  around  thee  rise  the  wondrous  world  of  Art — 
Fountains  wrought  with  richest  sculpture  standing  in  the  common  mart  I" 

There  are  many  statues  around  this  fountain,  all  of  rare  beauty; 
but  of  chiefest  perfectness  is  that  of  Alexander.  The  exquisite 
beauty  of  his  countenance  transcends  all  style,  whether  Gothic 
or  Classic;  nor  could  the  keenest  critic  assign  to  it  an  age  or 
school. 

Thou  mayest  remember,  reader,  that  we  begun  our  observations 
in  Nuremberg  in  a  beer-house.  For  this  let  the  country  and  its 
manners  be  our  excuse !  The  city,  with  its  Gothic  buildings, 
has  preserved  a  vast  number  of  very  Gothic  customs,  odd  say 
ings,  quaint  proverbs,  antique  rhymes,  venerable  jokes,  ancient 
puns,  and  other  curious  capabilities  not  herein  recorded,  but 
which  are  daily  developed  in  the  dim  atmosphere  of  the  Kneipe, 
or  ale-houses,  of  this  merry,  old,  hard-drinking  town.  "The 
Heaven's  Ladder  and  the  Vale  of  Misery!"  exclaims  that  narra 
tor  of  Nuremberg  marvels,  DR.  FRIEDERICH  MAYER;  "what 
man  ever  came  as  a  stranger  to  Nuremberg,  and  asked  not  after 
both  these  beer-purses  ?  in  the  courts  of  which,  during  the  hot 
days  of  summer,  he  can  enjoy,  beneath  the  cool  shadow  of  green 
acacias,  many  an  exquisite  beaker  of  that  foaming  brew  invented 
by  King  Cambrinus  for  the  refreshment  of  all  thirsty  souls." 

Therefore,  reader,  I  make  no  further  excuse  for  concluding 
this  my  Nuremberg  magic-lantern  series,  with  another  hostelrie 
slide.  See  you  yon  open  square  with  a  bronze  fountain  in  the 
midst? — a  peasant  bearing  two  geese  spouting  water  from  their 
mouths.  An  exquisitely  quaint  work  of  Art,  cast  long  ago  by 
ancient  Mas'ter  PANCRAS  LABENWOLF.  That  is  the  GOOSE- 
MARKET.  Now  cast  your  eyes  to  the  near  corner.  You  see  an 


104  SKETCH-BOOK    OF    ME,    MEISTER    KARL. 

old  tavern.     That  tavern,  gentle  reader,  was  whiloin  the  house 
where  HANS  SACHS  sung  and  laughed  "in  huge  folios." 

"For  his  home  is  now  an  ale-house,  with  a  nicely-sanded  floor, 
And  a  garland  in  the  window,  and  his  face  above  the  door; 

"Painted  by  some  humble  artist,  as  in  ADAM  PUSCHMANN'S  song, 
As  the  old  man  gray  and  dovelikc,  with  his  great  beard  white  and  long.* 

"And  at  night  the  swart  mechanic  comes  down  to  drown  his  cark  and  care, 
Quaffing  ale  from  pewter  tankards,  in  the  Master's  antique  chair." 

I  have  sat  long,  reader  mine,  alone  in  that  old  house*,  with  my 
meerschaum  and  a  glass  of  "Haycrisches"  before  me,  poring 
over  the  quaint  plays  and  poetic  fables  of  the  antique  Master  of 
Song.  And  yet  not  all  alone.  For  far  back  in  the  early  morning 
of  the  Soul,  and  against  the  blue  heaven  of  Memory  and  Thought, 
rose  the  crimson  and  golden  cloud-forms  of  the  beautiful  in 
spirit,  long  passed  away.  There  came,  in  brave  array,  the  noble, 
gentle  ghosts  of  all  who  have  left  to  earth  as  a  heritage  new 
forms  of  loveliness  in  poesy  or  Art.  And  among  them  wert 
thou,  old  master,  "gray  and  dove-like,"  with  a  smile  for  all  who 
have  learned  to  love  thee.  And  this  I  saw  of  silent  mornings  in 
the  house  of  Hans  Sachs,  and  in  the  quiet  old  town  of  NUREM 
BERG. 


"Am  selben  sass 
Ein  alt  Mann,  was 

Grau  und  weiss,  wie  ein  'Taub  'dermass, 
Der  h'att  'ein'n  grossen  Bart  fiirbass, 
In  ein'm  schb'nen  grossen  Buch  lass, 
Mit  Gold  bescklagen  schb'n." 

ADAM  PUSCHMANX. 


OF   UNCLE   BILL   BUMBLE.  105 


CHAPTER  THE  FIFTEENTH. 

OF   UNCLE   BILL   DUMBLE. 

"I  HAVE  another  dear  friend,  who  is  a  sexagenary  bachelor.  The  heyday  of 
life  is  over  with  him,  but  his  old  age  is  still  sunny  and  chirping.  He  is  a  pro 
fessed  squire  of  dames ;  the  rustle  of  a  silk  gown  is  music  in  his  ears.  ...  In 
his  devotions  to  the  fair  sex — the  muslin,  as  he  calls  it — he  is  the  gentle  flower 
of  chivalry.  He  loves  to  bask  in  the  sunshine  of  a  smile  ;  when  he  can  breathe 
the  sweet  atmosphere  of  kid  gloves  and  cambric  handkerchiefs,  his  soul  is  in 
its  element;  and  his  supreme  delight  is  to  pass  the  morning,  to  use  his  own 
quaint  language,  '  in  making  dodging  calls,  and  wiggling  round  among  the 
ladies.' "  HYPERION. 

ONE  glorious  autumnal  afternoon,  our  entire  party  had  the  luck 
to  find  themselves  comfortably  quartered  in  a  handsome  old- 
fashioned  suite  of  apartments  in  Vienna.  Dropping  into  the 
Wolf's  room,  I  found  it  tenanted  for  the  nonce  by  nearly  all  the 
gentlemen  of  our  company,  who  certainly  appeared  quite  as  much 
at  home  as  if  all  right  and  title  to  its  occupancy  had  devolved 
upon  them.  An  intense  atmosphere  of  fragrant  tobacco-smoke, 
mingled  with  the  fumes  of  coffee  and  liqueurs,  and  the  digagfa 
air  of  the  visitors  at  once  evinced  that  Wolf  was  the  man  (and 
there  is  always  one  such  in  every  establishment)  in  whose  room 
every  one  felt  perfectly  at  liberty  to  "  loaf,"  drop  in,  or  stay  a 
week,  without  the  slightest  fear  of  causing  annoyance. 

Extended  on  a  sofa  lay  fast  asleep  the  fat,  testy,  sentimental 
little  old  gentleman  already  introduced  to  the  reader  at  Venice. 
A  most  unlikely  person  he  seemed,  at  first  sight,  to  ever  win  his 
way  to  the  affections  of  our  company;  but  he  had  done  it — irrevo 
cably — and  was  now  fixed,  fast  as  a  nail,  in  the  hearts  of  every 
one,  more  particularly  in  those  of  the  ladies,  who  would  all,  to  a 
man,  have  rather  burnt  their  fans  than  send  him  adrift. 

In  good  faith,  Mr.  William  Dumlle,  (or  Uncle  Bill,  as  young 
C.  insisted  on  calling  him,)  though  what  the  French  call  a  "FAT," 
id  est,  a  man  of  impenetrable  self-conceit  and  obstinacy,  was 
bristled  all  over  with  as  many  good  points  as  a  candy  pyramid  or 


106  SKETCH-BOOK    OF    ME,    MEISTER    KARL. 

the  Confession  of  Faith.  Irritable  as  an  old  mud-wasp,  he  still 
continually  showed  himself  brave  as  a  lion,  and  that  far  ofteuer 
for  his  friends  than  himself.  But  though  so  chivalric,  peppery, 
and  fiery,  the  little  old  gentleman  had  a  soft  heart — very  soft — 
softer  than  Charlotte  Russe — and  could  be  melted  almost  to  tears 
by  any  moving  tale  of  love,  distress,  or  sentiment.  He  was  in 
fact  not  a  little  credulous,  but  it  was  that  creditable  variety 
of  credulity  which  originates  not  so  much  in  a  want  of  knowledge 
of  the  world,  as  from  a  continued  association  with  that  better 
class  of  mortals  who  give  us  but  little  reason  for  distrust.  And 
that  there  are  many  such — far  more  than  we  at  first  ever  sus 
pected — is  generally  the  last  and  truest  lesson  of  life  learned  by  the 
citizen  of  the  world  or  rout.  But  Uncle  Bill's  forte  was  the 
ladies,  to  whom  he  devoted  himself  with  that  honourable  assiduity 
manifested  by  an  industrious  hen  toward  a  brood  of  remarkably 
promising  chickens.  And  as  there  were,  fortunately  for  him, 
none  among  the  latter  at  all  disposed  to  ridicule  his  weak  points, 
or  overtask  for  the  sake  of  jest  his  ever-ready  services,  it  may  be 
imagined  with  what  zeal  this  gallant  squire  gave  himself  up  in 
all  honour  and  respect  to  the  dames  and  demoiselles. 

But  I  must  return  to  the  Wolf's  room.  There  lay  Uncle  Bill, 
fast  asleep,  still  holding  in  his  hand  Moore's  Loves  of  the  Angels. 
On  the  bed,  one  up,  the  other  with  his  head  toward  the  feet, 
were  young  C.  and  Adrian  the  artist,  each  puffing  away  for  dear 
life  at  a  mighty  meerschaum,  and  varying  its  uniformity  by  a  pull  at 
their  coffee  or  the  Mareschino ;  while  at  the  table,  encumbered  by 
guide-books,  maps,  cigar-cases,  whips,  weapons,  and  foils,  sat  the 
Chevalier,  deep  in  dominoes  with  Count  de  Egerlyn.  Von  Schwartz 
was  mildly  strumming  a  guitar  and  humming  airs  from  "Lucia;" 
while  in  one  corner  were  picturesquely  grouped  several  gentlemen 
seated  on  chairs,  trunks,  and  the  window-sill,  earnestly  occupied 
in  debating  the  relative  advantages  which  would  accrue  from  a 
visit  that  evening  either  to  Sperl's  Garden  or  the  Opera. 

"  Is  this  a  cafe  or  estaminet  ?"  said  I,  struck  with  delight  at  the 
after-dinner  paradise  of  tobacco  and  liqueurs  so  unexpectedly 
revealed  to  me. 

"No,  old  fellow,  it  wasn't  born  one,  but  it's  a  devilish  good 
substitute,"  cried  C.,  thinking  of  New  York.  "  Come  in,  take 
a  cigar,  and  don't  be  proud,  but  help  yourself  to  coffee  and 
fixiiis." 


OF   UNCLE    BILL   BUMBLE.  107 

I  was  just  about  to  comply  with  the  invitation,  when  a  burst 
of  laughter — lady  laughter — from  the  adjoining  parlour  caused 
me  to  start,  and  inquire,  "Who's  there?" 

"Le  Loup  dans  la  bergerie — the  Wolf  in  the  sheep-cote/' 
replied  Count  Egerlyn,  laughing. 

Quitting  the  cafe,  I  quietly  entered  the  parlour. 

Reader,  did  you  ever  see  a  pretty  French  engraving  entitled, 
"  How  girls  pick  up  their  wit"  ?  It  is  an  illustration  of  the 
scene  I  beheld.  Seated  at  the  table  was  Wolf,  while  around  him 
were  assembled  the  ladies,  all  apparently  in  the  best  humour  in 
the  world  with  him,  themselves,  and  each  other.  You  see  them 
in  the  picture:  Coralie,  Mrs.  C.,  the  Countess  Egerlyn,  Julie, 
Gertrude  Du  Val,  and  Bel.  There  was  LA  CAMPEADOR  with 
her  talking  eyes,  and  her  sister  with  her  black  ones,  not  to  men 
tion  others  omitted  by  the  artist  on  account  of  his  inability  to  do 
justice  to  their  charms.  And  there,  directly  in  the  midst,  sat 
Wolf,  snug  as  a  bug  in  a  rug,  and  happy  as  a  young  pumpkin  in 
the  sun.  He  was  evidently  in  his  old  element  of  yarn-spinning, 
flirting,  and  "oontant  fleurettes,"  or  saying  pretty  things;  and, 
to  judge  by  the  intense  happiness  and  fun  that  prevailed,  the 
ladies  were  "  quite  of  a  piece"  with  him. 

"And  that,  I  suppose,  Mr.  Wolf,  is  also  true?"  cried  Coralie, 
as  I  entered. 

"Fact — true  as  a  lover's  vow,  every  word  of  it.  But  talking 
of  the  instinct  of  animals,  its  nothing  to  what  occured  within 
the  experience  of  'an  intimate  friend  of  mine,  an  officer  in  an 
American  vessel.  One  day,  while  in  the  East,  on  coming  up 
after  a  noon-day  nap,  he  was  astonished  to  find  that  an  enormous 
tiger  had  been  brought  in  a  cage  on  board;  and  accordingly 
seated  himself  not  far  from  the  animal  and  began  observing  it. 
Now  it  happened  that  at  the  same  time  three  young  monkeys  had 
also  been  received  and  sent  for  the  nonce  down  below;  and  the 
said  monkeys,  beginning  to  feel  themselves  more  at  home,  had 
resolved  on  a  promenade  tour  of  inspection  round  their  new 
domicile,  and  accordingly  ascended  the  companion-way,  arm-in 
arm,  in  an  elegant  leisurely  manner." 

"Arm-in-arm?"  cried  the  ladies. 

"Yes,  arm-in-arm,  the  outside  monkeys  swinging  their  tails 
gracefully  for  canes.  So  well,  indeed,  did  one  conduct  himself, 
that  my  friend  began  to  fear  that  the  sailors  had  by  mistake 

10 


108  SKETCH-BOOK   OF   ME,    MEISTER   KARL. 

brought  off  some  native  of  rank.  Well,  no  sooner  had  they  fairly 
ascended,  than  they  found  themselves  directly  before  the  cage  of 
their  natural  enemy,  the  tiger.  Struck  with  terror,  each  uttered 
a  piercing  scream,  and  in  a  touching  attitude  of  despair  fell 
fainting  on  the  deck.7' 

"  Dreadful  I"  exclaimed  Coralie. 

"How  awfully  the  tiger  must  have  felt,"  said  Julie,  "to  think 
of  the  suffering  he  had  caused.  I  wouldn't  have  had  his  feelings 
for  an  acre  of  Cashmere  shawls." 

"  And  what  became  of  the  poor  young  gentlem I  mean 

monkeys?"  asked  the  Countess  Egerlyn. 

"The  youngest  was  the  first  to  recover  and  endeavour  to  arouse 
his  friends,  by  pinching  and  shaking,  to  a  sense  of  their  condi 
tion.  But  all  such  exertions  were  in  vain.  Finally,  observing 
not  far  off  a  very  large  wooden  bowl  full  of  water,  near  which  lay 
two  pewter  spoons,  he  carried  his  friends  thither,  and  by  dint  of 
splashing  and  pouring  water  with  a  spoon  into  their  mouths,  re 
stored  them  to  consciousness." 

"Noble  creature  !"  cried  Coralie. 

"No  sooner  had  they  fairly  recovered,  when,  apparently  by 
the  advice  of  the  one  whom  my  friend  took  for  a  native,  they  at 
once  rolled  the  bowl  overboard,  and  springing  into  it,  rowed  them 
selves  ashore  with  the  spoons,  evidently  preferring  the  risk  of  a 
watery  grave  to  the  recurral  of  such  shocks  to  their  nerves  as 
that  which  they  had  just  experienced." 

"But,"  said  Bel,  "it  don't  seem  to  me  natural  that  a  creature 
which  had  acted  so  much  like  a  fool  in  coming  up  stairs  should 
have  shown  so  much  sense  when  his  friends  fainted." 

"Both  monkeys  and  elephants,"  replied  Wolf,  "have  intelli 
gence  enough  to  supply  their  sick  or  wounded  companions  with 
water.  Even  cats  lick  their  dead  kittens.  Besides,"  continued 
Short,  sinking  his  voice  to  a  confidential  whisper,  "my  friend  in 
formed  me  that  he  believed  that  this  last  monkey  was  the  lady 
of  the  party  !" 

Here  a  general  burst  of  laughter  took  place,  broken  by  Ger 
trude  Du  Val's  remarking — 

"  Your  friend,  I  presume,  was  thinking  of  the  remark 
made  in  Marmion,  when  Clare  brings  water  to  the  wounded 
knight : 


OF   UNCLE   BILL   DUMBLE.  109 

"'0  woman  !  in  our  hours  of  ease, 
Uncertain,  coy,  and  hard  to  please; 
When  pain  and  anguish  wring  the  brow, 
A  ministering  angel  thou  !'  " 

"Oh,  undoubtedly,"  rejoined  Wolf.  "But  talking  of  mon 
keys,  these  creatures  are  sometimes  incredibly  intelligent.  Seve 
ral  years  ago,  an  old  friend  of  my  father's  took  with  him  to  Paris 
an  ourang-outang,  who  manifested  immediately  on  his  arrival  a 
remarkable  quickness  of  what  might  almost  be  termed  intellect. 
On  the  third  evening  he  stole  ten  francs,  and  made  his  escape 
through  the  window  to  a  masked  ball  held  on  the  Boulevard 
Italien.  Being  naturally  taken  for  a  gentleman  in  disguise,  he 
had  no  difficulty  in  obtaining  admission,  and  of  course  still  less 
in  conforming  to  the  usages  and  etiquette  (or  rather  want  of  it) 
which  there  prevailed.  Having  performed  with  ease  the  feat  so 
much  admired  by  the  disciples  of  Chicard,  of  gallopeing  around 
the  hall  with  his  partner  on  his  back,  and  afterward  climbing 
with  a  grisette  in  his  arms  up  to  the  fourth  tier,  he  became  of 
course  immensely  popular ;  and  being  from  his  taciturnity  taken 
for  a  stranger,  (probably  English,)  was  much  courted  and  ca 
ressed  (about  supper-time)  by  the  ladies  present." 

"They  might  have  known,"  said  Coralie,  "from  his  conduct, 
that  he  was  not  bete  enough  to  be  English." 

"But  having  unthinkingly  snatched  from  one  of  his  admirers 
a  stick  of  sucre  de  pomme,  or  apple-sugar,  he  was  arrested  by  a 
gendarme,  whom  he  at  once  pommelled  a.  la  Kentuck,  and  then 
took  to  flight,  after  biting  off  the  ear  of  the  unfortunate  soldier, 
bearing  with  him  the  musket  of  his  vanquished  foe !" 

"Bravo!"  exclaimed  the  ladies. 

"For  some  time  after  this,  he  prudently  remained  at  home, 
restraining  his  antics  to  kissing  his  paws  from  the  window  to 
Jadies  passing  by." 

"Who,  of  course,"  replied  Coralie,  "mistook  the  monkey  for 
a  lion,  in  the  Parisian  sense  of  the  word." 

"But  on  the  fourth  evening,  my  gentleman  found  his  monkey 
again  missing.  He  had  absconded,  bearing  with  him  several 
bank-notes,  ail  of  my  friend's  eye-glasses  and  kid-gloves,  the  best 
of  his  clothes  and  linen,  a  pot  of  rouge,  some  hair-dye,  and  seve 
ral  excellent  works  on  etiquette,  conduct,  and  politeness,  not  to 
mention  a  set  of  Faublas." 


110  SKETCH-BOOK    OF   ME,    MEISTER   KARL. 

"It  strikes  me,"  said  Mrs.  C.,  "that  this  last  theft  did  not 
indicate  such  a  very  remarkable  degree  of  good  sense." 

"My  friend  heard  only  once  of  him  after  this.  The  monkey, 
owing  to  his  extravagance,  was  soon  reduced  to  earn  his  liveli 
hood  by  taking  part  in  an  exhibition  of  industrious  well-trained 
animals,  (like  himself,  no  longer  sauvage,}  held,  I  believe,  in  the 
Rue  de  Clery." 

"Poor  creature!"  sighed  Coralie.  "Poverty  makes  us  ac 
quainted  with  strange  companions.  And  what  became  of  him 
then?" 

"His  latter  fate  is  involved  in  mystery,"  replied  Wolf.  "But 
not  long  after,  a  nigger  gentleman,  hitherto  unknown  to  fame 
and  fortune,  made  a  striking  debut  in  the  literary  and  social 
world  of  Paris.  From  the  extravagant  feats  narrated  of  this  lion, 
my  friend  always  insisted  that  the  successful  darkey  could  be  no 
other  than  his  long-lost  monkey  !" 

"You  should  have  brought  your  tiger  into  this  story,  Mr. 
Wolf,"  exclaimed  Coralie.  "As  it  is,  according  to  Voltaire,  you 
have  only  made  half  &  Frenchman  of  him." 

"Voltaire  spoke  of  the  men,"  replied  Wolf,  "and,  indeed, 
only  of  the  worse  part  of  them.  As  for  the  ladies,  they  are  half 
dove "  . 

"And  half  devil,"  rejoined  Coralie,  rising.  "Mr.  Wolf,  let 
us  have  the  pleasure  of  your  company  this  evening  to  the  opera.' 
Come,  Bel,  my  angel,  let  us  vanish!  Mr.  Courier,  excuse  us." 

With  these  words  our  lady  friends  departed,  and  I  took  with 
Wolf  the  back  track  to  his  room  and  its  fragrant  attractions;  but 
M'lle  Coralie,  lingering  an  instant  behind,  cried  after  us — 

"  Monsieur  Wolf,  are  you  sure  the  monkey  did  not  afterward 
take  a  trip  to  your  country?" 

"  Va — tu  m'emletcs!"*  was  the  equivocal  and  intensely-refined 
reply  of  my  friend,  in  a  low  tone,  heard  only  by  myself  and  the_ 
gay  Parisienne.  "And  as  for  being  a  monkey,"  he  continued  to 
me,  in  a  mild  growl,  "I  doubt  very  much  whether  I  or  any  other 
man  would  lose  ground  in  the  esteem  of  Miss  Coralie  and  her 
fellow  French,  even  if  I  had  been  the  hero  of  my  last  tale  a  dozen 
times  over.  Vive  la  Grande  Nation!  I  like  them;  I  do!" 


*  "  You  make  an  animal  of  me" — id  eat,  you  weary  and  annoy  me ;  a  coarse 
French  expression. 


OF   UNCLE   BILL   BUMBLE.  Ill 

AFTER-PIECE. 

"  AND  Mr.  PRYNNE  solemnly  declared  to  me,  that  he  would  rather  lose  his 
life  than  disguise -himself  as  a  woman." 

CALAMITIES  OF  AUTHORS. 

THAT  evening,  after  our  return  from  the  opera,  while  seated 
in  Wolf 's  room,  I  was  astonished  to  hear  an  unusual  rustling, 
bustling,  and  whispering  in  the  parlour.  The  ladies  were  evidently 
about  something,  which  (as  young  C.  was  therein  involved,  to 
judge  by  his  laugh)  was  evidently  mischief. 

Softly  opening  the  door  we  joined  the  party,  and  beheld  an 
unexpected  apparition.  There  in  the  midst  stood  young  C.,  dis 
guised  as  a  lady,  in  all  the  glory  of  flowing  tresses  and  rosy 
cheeks.  7/a//"-disguised,  I  should  have  said,  for  his  silk  dress 
lay  on  the  table  beside  him,  and  Coralie,  convulsed  with  laughter, 
was  busy  in  lacing  his  corset. 

"Walk  in,  gentlemen,"  he  exclaimed,  as  we  entered,  "and 
don't  be  shocked  to  find  me  in  skirtibus.  Though  hovering 
around  the  airy  confines  of  delicacy,  I  have  not  as  yet  stepped 
beyond  the  borders." 

•  With  these  words  he  modestly  raised  the  hem  of  his  garments, 
as  if  stepping  through  mud,  to  convince  us  that,  like  many  other 
ladies,  he  had  not  as  yet  relinquished  the  pantaloon;  which 
movement  somewhat  disconcerted  the  occupation  of  Coralie. 

"Ft  done! — be  still,  you  naughty  boy!  Remember  that  mo 
desty  is  now  your  greatest  jewel.  There,  now  you're  improved." 

With  these  words  she  drew  back  to  contemplate  his  figure, 
and  complacently  pronounced  it  not  so  bad.  The  robe  was  then 
donned;  a  simple  camellia  twisted  into  his  wig;  his  white  kids 
drawn  on,  and  a  cashmere  laid  over  his  shoulders.  Bel  and 
Mrs.  C.  proposed  one  or  two  small  alterations,  but  ultimately 
yielded,  as  usual,  to  Coralie' s  superior  French  taste  in  all  such 
matters. 

"Hadn't  we  better  take  off  the  moustache?"  said  Wolf  mali 
ciously,  referring  to  an  almost  imperceptible  down  which  shaded 
the  upper  lip  of  C.  f  a  remark  which  caused  that  young  hero  to 
draw  up  in  intense  indignation  and  anxiety. 

"  Oh,  not  at  all,"  cried  Coralie,  who  had,  from  their  mutual 
spirit  of  recklessness  and  fun,  rather  an  affection  for  young  C.; 
"a  lady  is  always  the  more  piquant  for  a  light  moustache." 

10* 


112  SKETCH-BOOK    OF    ME,    MEISTER   KARL. 

"Indeed?"  replied  Wolf;  "that  sounds  French.  But  politics 
apart,  what  (Joes  all  this  mean,  now  that  Carnival  is  over  and 
masked  balls  out  of  date?" 

"Why,"  said  young  C.,  "Uncle  Bill,  you  know " 

"Yes,  replied  Wolf,  "I  expected  as  much.  A  rig  on  Uncle 
Bill,  of  course.  That  forms  a  part  of  the  daily  devotion  of  your 
self  and  Coralie." 

"Well,  Uncle  Bill  showed  symptoms  of  mutiny  and  disobe 
dience  this  evening  at  the  opera.  Quite  unbearable,  wasn't  he  ?" 
said  C.,  appealing  to  the  ladies. 

"Oh,  terrible!"  cried  Coralie,  who  appeared  to  have  made  up 
her  mind  to  swear  to  any  thing. 

"  On  the  frivolous  pretence  that  I  had  taken  a  seat  which  he 
wanted,  he  refused  to  summon  an  ice-cream  for  me !" 

"Yes,  indeed — the  monster!"  quoth  Coralie. 

"Refused  to  apologize,  and  like  a  Coriolanus  called  me  (I>oy!'" 

"Abominable!"  chimed  Coralie. 

"  For  which  oifence,  knowing  his  rosy  modesty  and  ungovern 
able  morality,  I  propose  rousing  him  out  of  his  slumbers  and 
scaring  him  to  death  with  this  disguise !" 

"  Well,  '  Luck  be  with  you/  as  Falkenberg  said  to  the  devil,  re 
plied  Wolf.  "  But  if  Uncle  Bill  murders  you,  I  shan't  blame  him." 

"Stop  a  minute,  my  daughter,"  cried  Coralie.  "Let  me  first 
embellish  your  charms  a  little !" 

With  these  words  she  took  a  match,  and  having  reduced  one 
end  to  a  coal,  proceeded  to  draw  a  faint  black  line  beneath  each 
of  the  under  eye-lashes,  which  gave,  as  she  said,  a  more  interest 
ing  expression  to  his  glances.  Then  with  the  same  she  made 
two  or  three  black  dots  on  his  delicately-rouged  complexion, 
pressing  them  with  the  tips  of  her  delicate  fingers,  so  as  to  give 
the  appearance  of  slight  moles  or  freckles. 

"When  the  complexion  is  good,"  said  she,  "little  defects  like 
these  remove  the  suspicion  of  its  being  artificial ;  that  is,  when 
they  are  well  placed.  Besides,  they  add,  like  the  moustache, 
to  the  general  piquancy  of  expression." 

With  a  little  ultramarine  from  the  ground  of  a  rouge-paper,  she 
then  drew  across  the  top  of  his  nose  a  faint  blue  vein. 

"And  now,"  said  she,  "you  are  perfect.  Go,  my  daughter, 
end  remember  that  beauty  without  modesty  is  like  a  potato 
without  peel — the  first  dust  sullies  its  purity." 


OF    UNCLE    BILL   DUMBLE.  113 

Fortified  with  this  injunction,  C.  took  his  way  to  Uncle  Bill's 
nest,  which  opened  into  the  parlour,  and  after  a  terrible  series  of 
raps,  boldly  entered,  leaving  the  door  a  quarter  of  an  inch  ajar. 

"  Who's  that?"  growled  Uncle  Bill,  awakened  from  his  nap. 

"Are  you  Mr.  William  Duinble  ?"  inquired  C.,  in  as  soft  a 
tone  as  he  could  assume. 

"  Ye — e — s,"  replied  Uncle  Bill,  turning  over  in  bed  and  star 
ing  at  his  visitor,  who  was  barely  visible  in  the  faint  light  admit 
ted  from  the  parlour.  "Who  are  you,  ma'am,  I  ask — who  are 
your 

"One  who  has  lived  for  years  in  the  hope  of  at  length  behold 
ing  your  loved  countenance,  and  receiving  from  you  those  embraces 
and  that  pecuniary  patronage  which  every  child  is  entitled  to  ex 
pect  from  its  parent.  Yes,  my  father !  arise  and  behold  in  me 
your  long-lost  daughter,  SABINA  BRANDYBUG  !" 

Great  was  the  wrath  of  Uncle  Bill  at  this  speech.  Stammer 
ing  with  confusion  and  rage,  he  cried,  "Begone,  you  infamous 
hussy — get  out !  Why,  I  was  never  married  in  all  my  life  I" 

"  Oh  yes,  you  were,  my  father/'  replied  C.  in  a  voice  broken 
with  sobs,  "though  you  were  so  tipsy  at  the  time  that  you  knew 
nothing  about  it.  I  have  the  certificate  here  in  my  waistcoat 
1  mean  my — my  hat." 

"You  wretched  creature,  begone  this  instant!"  cried  Uncle 
Bill,  not  noticing  in  his  rage  C.'s  slight  inaccuracy.  "Bless  me," 
cried  he  in  despair,  observing  that  his  exordium  produced  not 
the  slightest  effect,  and  gasping  with  terror  at  a  new  thought, 
"  what  if  the  ladies  should  hear  of  this  !" 

"Ladies!  LADIES!!"  cried  C.;  "oh,  then,  if  there  be  ladie.i 
here,  I  will  seek  from  their  feminine  souls  that  sympathy  which 
my  barbarous  father  denies.  To  them  will  I  unfold  the  story  of 
my  wrongs,  and  in  their  company  bind  up  the  broken  sorrows  of 
a  burning  heart." 

"  WOMAN  !"  exclaimed  Uncle  Bill,  evidently  frightened  into  a 
compromise,  "what  do  you  really  require?" 

"That  you  mention  me  politely  in  your  will;  acknowledge  ni3 
as  your  daughter;  give  me  a  handsome  cheque  on  your  banker, 
and  make  me  a  present  of  those  two  boxes  of  prime  Havanas 
which  you  bought  yesterday  morning." 

Here  C.,  who  could  no  longer  restrain  his  laughter,  made  a 
rapid  escape  through  the  door — just  in  time  to  avoid  the  candle- 


114  SKETCH-BOOK    OF    ME,    MEISTER    KARL. 

stick  and  boot-jack  which  came  thundering  after  him.  A  general 
roar  from  such  of  the  company  as  were  assembled  in  the  parlour 
completed  the  climax  of  Uncle  Bill's  wrath. 

"This  will  cause  trouble/'  said  I,  gravely,  after  a  minute's 
pause. 

"Shouldn't  wonder/'  replied  C.,  as  if  he  thought  that  to  be 
the  best  of  the  business. 

Scarcely  had  he  uttered  these  words,  when  Uncle  Bill,  hastily 
but  completely  dressed,  bolted  out,  his  round  face  red-hot  with 
rage. 

"This  is  infamous!"  he  exclaimed;  "yes,  sir,  infamous! 
(Ladies,  I  beg  your  pardon.)  Mr.  C.,  there  is  my  card!" 

With  these  words  he  extended  to  C.  a  card,  at  which  the  latter 
glanced,  and  then  burst  into  an  uncontrollable  laugh. 

"Why,  what  now?"  said  Wolf;   "what's  on  the  card?" 

"<  MARIA  Nuzzi/  (oh,  you  old  reprobate!)  lue<j  leave  inform 
the  english  american  nobility  that  she  wash  and  whiten  beaut  i- 
fullt/  their  linen,  at  elegant  price,  and  in  the  cheapest  manner. 

"'  N.  B.   MARIA  Nuzzi  speak  enylish  french.' 

"Oh,  Uncle  Bill!"  continued  C.,  "I  always  knew  that  you 
fell  in  love  with  our  washerwoman  at  Venice,  but  little  thought 
that  you  carried  her  card  about  as  a  souvenir." 

To  this  last  Uncle  Bill  made  no  reply,  but  shot  back  into  his 
room,  slamming  the  door  after  him  like  a  thunder-clap. 

"We  have  all  acted  very  imprudently,  I  fear,"  said  Mrs.  C., 
with  her  sweet  voice.  "It  is  but  just  that  we  offer  Mr.  Dumble 
an  apology  for  such  a  trick.  Cousin,  you,  with  M'lle  Coralie, 
must  be  more  careful  in  future." 

At  this  reproof,  the  two  young  rogues,  whom  I  verily  believe 
nothing  else  would  move,  began  to  look  extremely  grave.  But 
recovering  herself,  Coralie  said — 

"C'est  bien  fdcheux  ;  but  I  will  bet  my  best  point-lace  collar 
and  cuffs,  that  our  good  uncle  is  laughing  now  as  heartily  at  the 
joke  as  any  of  us." 

How  Mrs.  C.  brought  the  reconciliation  about  I  never  exactly 
knew.  But  one  fact  recorded  in  Uncle  Bill's  history  is,  that  he 
and  young  C.  made  the  next  day,  in  loving  company,  a  long  ex 
cursion  to  the  Esterhazy  Gallery  and  the  Prater,  and  that  after 
dinner  he  actually  presented  Miss  Sabina  Brandybug  with  one 
of  the  much-coveted  boxes  of  regalias,  previously  solicited.  I 


REMINISCENCES   OF   THE   OLDEN   TIME.  115 

am  not  quite  certain  but  that  the  old  gentleman,  who,  like  most 
sound  old  bachelors,  liked  to;be  bantered  for  his  love-scrapes, 
was  rather  pleased  at  an  incident  which  had  brought  him  out  so 
strongly  as  a  mauvais  sujet,  and  one  who  could  tell,  if  he  liked. 
Nor  do  I  doubt  but  that  Coralie  and  C.,  who  thoroughly  knew  his 
weak  points,  afterward  availed  themselves  to  the  last  degree  of  this 
penchant,  and  trotted  him  out  in  the  most  astonishing  manner, 
until  they  were  more  than  re-established  in  his  good  graces.  But 
one  thing  I  know  :  that  they  ever  after  treated  him  with  such 
kindness  and  attention,  that  I  consider  the  chances  of  their  being 
mentioned  in  his  will  as  by  no  means  doubtful;  trusting  only 
that  a  century  may  elapse  before  this  mark  of  esteem  may  be  of 
any  advantage  to  them. 

"  Who  is  it  that  hath  writ  this  tale, 

Hath  told  it — and  so  on  ? 
That  in  Vienna,  in  Austria, 
Hath  KARL  the  Meister  done." 


CHAPTER  THE  SIXTEENTH. 

IN  WHICH   THE   MEISTER  INDULGES  IN  REMINISCENCES  OF  THE 
OLDEN    TIME. 

"  OH  DEAR,  'tis  a  tale  of  the  olden  time." 
Sequari  vestigia  reruni." — WATSON'S  ANNALS  :  MOTTO. 

IT  was  Meister  Karl's  fortune  to  pass  as  studiosus  philosophise 
some  time  at  the  University  of  Munich,  and  at  the  time  when  the 
eccentric  Lola  Montez  was  lady-paramount  in  the  German 
Athens.  Much  of  that  lady's  life,  like  Samuel  Weller's,  is 
written  "in  hist'ry;"  but  there  are  numerous  little  nourishes  in 
her  private  career  which  will  probably  escape  the  Marquis  de 
Papon,  or  even  the  magazines.  Biographies,  like  events,  repeat 
themselves ;  and  the  general  reader  is  never  at  a  loss  for  a  pre 
cedent  to  any  startling  human  phenomenon.  A  suggestion  that 
Lola  bore  a  marked  likeness  to  the  beautiful  and  capricious  Im- 
peria,  so  well  known  to  the  readers  of  the  Contes  Droslatiques, 


116  SKETCH-BOOK   OF    ME,    MEISTER   KARL. 

produced  the  following  chapter,  of  which  you,  my  friends,  may 
believe  as  much  or  as  little  as  you>  please. 


Talking  of  good  fellows,  reader,  some  people  call  Lola  Montez 
one.  She  always  was  a  trump,  they  say — the  veritable  Queen  of 
Hearts,  /said  so  once,  more  than  four  hundred  years  ago.  It 
was  at  the  great  Council  of  Constance,  where  she  then  shone  a 
bright,  particular  star,  known  to  the  world  as  the  FAIR  IMPERIA. 
I  was  myself,  at  that  time,  confidential  secretary  to  His  Excel 
lency  Bishop  Matteis,  a  worthy  man  and  great  scholar. 

Now  one  day,  while  awaiting  in  that  lady's  ante-chamber  the 
opportunity  to  speak  a  few  words  with  a  certain  cardinal,  whom 
I  erroneously  supposed  at  the  time  to  be  in  confab  with  her,  and 
being  weary  of  delay,  I  began  to  sing,  in  baritono  prof  undo,  a 
song  of  my  own  composition,  which  had  recently  become  im 
mensely  popular  among  the  lords  spiritual  and  temporal,  the 
bishops,  archbishops,  cardinals,  priests,  and  laymen  in  attendance 
on  the  council;  and  the  words  were — 

"  Constance  lies  on  the  Boden  Boden  See, 
Just  take  a  look  and  convinced  you'll  be ; 
Constance  lies  on  the  Boden  Boden  See, 
Just  take  a  look  and  convinced  you'll  be  : 
Convinced  you'll  be — 'vinced  you'll  be, 
That  Constance  lies  on  the  Boden  Boden  See. 

Constance  lies  on  the  Boden  Boden  See, 
Just  take  a  look  and  convinced  you'll  be, 
Be,  be,  be,  be,  be,  be,  be-e-c, 
That  Constance  lies  on  the  Boden  Boden  See. 
Constance  lies  on  the  Boden  Boden  See, 
Just  take  a  look  and  convinced  you'll  be  : 
Boden  Boden  See,  Boden  Boden  See, 
Boden  Boden  See,  Boden  Boden  See  ; 
Constance  lies  on  the  Boden  Boden  See. 
Just  take  a  look  and  convinced  you'll  be  !" 

I  had  proceeded  thus  far,  when  a  musical  voice  at  my  elbow 
cried  out,  'Bravo!"  I  turned  and  beheld  the  Fair  Imperia. 

"  That  is  a  sweet  lay,  Sir  Secretary.    Are  the  words  your  own  ?" 

I  bowed  assent,  with  conscious  pride.  Of  all  affectation, 
reader,  the  most  contemptible  is  that  of  pretending  to  underrate 
your  own  poetry  when  you  know  that  it  is  good. 

"I  love  poets,"  continued  Imperia.  "Will  you  come  and 
take  supper  with  me  this  evening?" 


REMINISCENCES   OF   THE   OLDEN   TIME.  117 

"A  thousand  pardons,  fair  lady/'  I  replied;  "but  my  lord 
bishop  requires  my  attendance." 

"  Oh,  never  mind  your  bishop ;  you  can  run  home  and  poison 
him,  you  know,  long  before  dinner !  Ha  !  I  have  in  my  cabinet 
some  exquisite  Milanese  Assa  Porci,  which  will  settle  him  di 
rectly.  Or,  if  you  prefer  it,  one  of  my  esquires  shall  go  imme 
diately  and  stab  him." 

Overcome  by  this  excess  of  kindness,  I  could  only  thank 
Imperia,  and  assure  her  that  these  intensities  of  politeness  were 
quite  needless ;  that  for  once  I  would  venture  to  play  the  truant, 
and  become  her  guest. 

"Then  why,  in  the  name  of  all  the  devils  and  the  red  fire  of 
hell,  couldn't  you  say  so  at  once  ?"  quoth  the  lady. 

Reader,  I  did  take  supper  with  her — at  the  risk  of  getting  my 
head  broken.  She  flung  both  her  cats  out  of  the  window;  set 
her  dog  at  a  primate  who  came  to  make  an  evening  call;  fired 
the  curtains,  and  quenched  it  with  three  dozen  of  Burgundy; 
cursed  the  cook  for  not  putting  point-lace  around  the  handle  of 
the  joint  of  venison;  and  concluded  with  an  abortive  attempt  to 
assassinate  her  dressing-maid  for  sneezing  during  prayers. 

A  good  deed  always  meets  with  its  reward.  More  than  four 
hundred  years  afterwards — id  est,  one  sunny  afternoon  in  Munich, 
on  or  about  the  twenty-fifth  of  April,  A.D.  1847 — I  found  my 
self  in  company  with  half  the  town  in  general,  and  the  Swiss 
corps  of  students  in  particular,  seated  in  a  beer-hall  just  without 
the  walls.  And  you  must  know,  my  friend,  that  it  is  an  old 
custom  to  sell  in  that  particular  place,  from  the  twentieth  of 
April  until  the  first  of  May,  a  strong  beer  known  as  "Salvator" 
to  all  applying.  But  from  the  latter  date  until  the  first  of  June 
another  variety,  termed  "J3ok}"  is  sold  at  another  place  not  far 
from  the  Residenz  or  Palace. 

Now  the  honest  and  virtuous  citizens  of  Munich  were  making 
merry  after  their  own  hearts  over  the  Salvator  beer.  Some  were 
abusing  the  king,  and  others  disputing  whether  the  electric  tele 
graph  wire,  which  passed  through  the  Neu  Strass,  were  a 
lightning-rod  or  a  patent  clothes-line.  Some  were  swearing  by 
Donner  wetter  and  Parapluie,  and  others  screaming  out,  "  Sep- 
perl,"  to  the  beer-maid.  Finally,  a  jovial  student  of  law,  named 
Sturzenegger,  (ultimately  turned  out  of  the  University  for  his 
political  liberalism,)  proposed  that  we  should  sing,  "  On  yonder 


118  SKETCH-BOOK    OF    ME,    MEISTER    KARL. 

rock  reclining."  But  a  slight  difficulty  interposed;  for  of  the 
singers  present  very  few  knew  it  in  the  same  tongue.  Each, 
therefore,  started  on  his  own  hook: 

A.  sang  in  Italian. 

B.  in  German. 

C.  in  Romansch. 

D.  in  French. 

E.  in  Bavarian  patois. 

F.  in  Chechisch. 

G.  in  Magyar. 
H.  in  Illyrian. 

And  I  (your  friend)  in  English. 

So  we  were  all  as  happy  as  clams  at  high  tide.  And  with  my 
meerschaum  rolling  volumes  of  smoke  out  of  my  mouth,  with  a 
mighty  "Mass* I"  of  Salvator  before  me,  I  mused  over  the  wise 
things  which  Professor  Beckers  had  said  that  morning  in  his 
lecture  on  Schelling;  over  the  profundities  which  Schubert  had 
that  afternoon  evolved  in  Natural  History,  and  the  excellent 
arguments  which  Goerres  would  to-morrow  develop ;  and  just  as 
I  was  losing  myself  in  Thiersch's  ^Esthetics  and  Neumann's 
Modern  History,  I  heard  a  row  outside 

.  .  .  An  accurate  row ;  a  well-defined  row ;  a  devil  of  a  row. 
For  the  Fair  Imperia  that  was,  the  lovely  Lola  that  is,  having 
learned  (probably  from  her  particular  friend  Mr.  Meyer,  alias  His 
Majesty  King  Louis)  that  her  ancient  enemies,  the  people  of 
Munich,  were  all  off  on  a  bender  in  the  Salvator  Kneip,  resolved 
to  beard  the  lions  in  their  den,  and  take  a  drink  herself;  and 
had  actually  descended  from  her  carriage,  whip  in  hand,  for  the 
purpose 

When  being  recognised  by  some  of  the  natives,  they  at 

once  arose  and  greeted  her  with  a  pereat.  With  hoots,  yells, 
and  screams,  the  multitude  drove  her  back  to  the  vehicle,  pelted 
it,  smashed  the  glasses,  and  cursed  like  Russians.  Hearing  a 
muttered  "  Sacrament !"  beside  me,  I  turned  and  beheld  my 
particular  friend  H.,  student  of  law,  holding  a  mighty  paving- 
stone,  with  which  he  was  about  to  annihilate  Lola,  kill  the  coach 
man,  and  very  probably  injure  the  horses  and  carriage — which 
stone  I  incontinently  twitched  out  of  his  hands. 

And  so  I  paid  for  my  supper. 


REMINISCENCES   OF   THE   OLDEN   TIME.  119 

FRANQOYS  VILLON,  the  madcap  poet  who  flourished  during 
the  reigns  of  Charles  the  VII.  and  Louis  the  XI.,  was  an  inti 
mate  friend  of  mine.  Once  or  twice  in  every  century  I  always 
make  a  point  of  reading  through  his  "Testaments."  And  I 
would  advise  you,  friend-reader,  to  do  the  same  ;  if  not  several 
times  at  different  ages,  at  least  once  during  the  century  in  which 
you  live.  For  never  was  there  yet  so  good  a  poet  so  little  read. 

"  Villon  sut  le  premier,  dans  ces  siecles  grossiers, 
Debrouiller  1'art  confus  de  nos  vieux  romanciers." 

So  said  Boileau,  with  reason. 

VILLON,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  was  "a  hard  boy."  Reckless,  wild, 
and  eccentric,  his  whole  life  was  one  continued  scrape.  A  genu 
ine  student  of  Paris,  his  money  and  time  went,  as  he  ex 
pressed  it  — 

"  Tout  aux  tavernes,  et  aux  filles." 

No  class  of  men  have  changed  so  little  during  the  course  of 
centuries  as  these  same  students.  It  is  written  in  the  folio  of 
Johannes  de  Mercuria  — 

1st.  "PECCATUM  MAGIS  BONUM  EST  QUAM  MALUM."  "Sin 
is  rather  a  good  than  an  evil  thing." 

2dly.     "CONSENTIENS    TEMPTATIONE,     CUI     RESISTERE     NON 

POTEST,  NON  PECCAT."  "The  man  who  yields  to  temptation 
when  no  longer  able  to  resist,  does  not  sin." 

For  these  dicta  John  was  very  properly  condemned  in  1347 
by  the  University  of  Paris.  Pity,  isn't  it,  reader,  that  after  so 
many  centuries  we  should  still  find  the  students  of  that  very 
University  exemplifying  by  their  lives  the  fullest  faith  in  such 
improper,  unexemplary,  heretical,  and  obsolete  doctrines  ?  But 
so  the  world  goes  ! 

There  is  a  little  poem  of  Villon's,  which  always  pleased  me. 
The  poor  devil  wrote  it  when  laid  neck  and  heels  in  prison,  and 
introduced  it,  at  my  suggestion,  into  his  "  Grand  Testament" 
Here  it  is  — 


$£8  Mantes  &u 

(1461.) 

"  Say,  is  there  left  on  earth  a  traco 

Of  FLORA,  once  the  fairest  fair  ? 
Or  ARCHIPIADA,  or  THAIS, 
That  bright,  unrivall'd,  queenly  pair? 
11 


120  SKETCH-BOOK   OF   ME,    MEISTER   KARL. 

Echo  will  fling  the  question  back, 

O'er  silent  lake  and  streamlet  lone, 
Where  doth  all  earthly  beauty  flee  ? 

Where  have  the  snows  of  winter  gone  ? 

"Where  is  the  learned  HKLOISE, 

For  whom  the  amorous  scholar  sigh'd  ? 
Ah,  happy  had  they  never  met ! 

Love  ill  becomes  scholastic  pride. 
Or  where  the  proud  and  stately  queen, 

By  whose  command  DE  BURIDAN 
Was  thrown  at  midnight  in  the  Seine  ? 

— Where  have  the  snows  of  winter  gone? 

"  Where  is  that  queen,  our  fleur  de  lys, 

Whose  gentle  voice  could  banish  pain  ? 
Fair  BERTHA,  BEATRICE,  ALYS, 

And  HAREMBOURG,  who  held  La  Mayne  ? 
And  good  JOANNA  of  Lorraine, 

Burnt  by  the  English  at  Rouen  ? 
Where  are  they  all — Saint  MARY — speak? 

— Where  have  the  snows  of  winter  gone  ? 

"  Gentles,  these  questions  all  are  vain  ; 

Ask  not  of  things  forever  flown  : 
With  this  refrain,  I  answer  plain, 

Where  have  the  snows  of  winter  gone  ?" 

BONAVENTURE  DES  TERRIERS  was  also  a  particular  friend 
of  mine.  If  I  had  time,  I  would  translate  liis  "  Cymlalum 
Mundi,"  which  is  a  witty  book,  as  you  well  know,  although 
sadly  abused  by  the  learned.  For  Stephanus  calls  it  "  detestable;" 
La  Croix  du  Mayne  and  Bayle,  "impious;"  and  Estienne 
Pasquier,  "  a  book  deserving  to  be  burnt  with  its  author."  The 
thick-headed  Philistine,  Theophilus  Spizelius,  assures  his  readers 
that  it  is  very  infamous,  extremely  wicked,  and  execrable;  while 
a  certain  manuscript  commentator  (or  small  potato)  appended  to 
it,  as  critique,  tl  Dixit  insipiens  in  corde  suo,  '  Non  est  Deus.' " 
Of  all  these  gentlemen,  with  the  exception  of  one,  none  bad 
ever  read  a  line  of  it;  and  he  (the  exception)  declares  it  to  be 
quite  as  vile  a  book  as  the  work  "  De  Tribus  Impostoribus,"  (with 
which  he  had  no  doubt  carefully  compared  it.)  And  this  of  the 
very  man  who  aided  Calvin  and  Olivctan  to  translate  the  Bible 
into  French!!  Horrible,  most  horrible!!  But  Bonaventure 
was  a  spiritual  brother  of  Rabelais;  ergo,  if  his  sins,  et  cetera. 
You  know  the  catch — 


REMINISCENCES    OF    THE    OLDEN    TIME.  121 

"  Sing  jig  my  jole — the  pudding-bowl, 

The  table  and  the  frame  : 

My  master  he  did  cudgel  me 

For  kissing  of  my  dame." 

I  shall  always  cherish  with  lively  emotions  of  gratitude  the 
recollection  of  my  poor  friend  Bonaventtire.  For  it  was  through 
him  I  first  became  acquainted  with  that  sweetest,  gentlest,  noblest, 
and  fairest  of  ladies,  Marguerite  de  Valois,  Queen  of  Navarre ; 

"Who  introduced  me  to  Clement  Marot; 

Who  introduced  me  to  Etienne  Dolet ; 

Who  introduced  me  to  Pelletier ; 

Who  introduced  me  to  Denisot ; 

Who  introduced  me  to  Boiaistuau, 

Whom  I  knew  already. 

Ah  !  life  was  a  golden  dream  for  me  then  !  On  the  stream 
of  time  swam  roses  and  lilies.  Beautiful  melodies  rang  forth 
from  the  lute  of  love,  and  the  treble  of  glad  hopes  in  a  happy 
future  bore  the  accompaniment  of  pleasant  memories  of  a  delight 
ful  past.  0  niy  soul ! 

"Bringe  us  in  goode  ale,  brynge  us  in  goode  ale  ! 
For  our  blissed  Lady's  sake,  bring  us  in  goode  ale ! 
For  yf  that  I 
Maye  have  trewly 
Goode  ale  a  firkin  full ; 
I  shal  looke  like  one, 
By  swete  Saint  JOHN, 
Well  shorn  against  ye  wolle  ! 
Tho  I  goe  bare, 
Take  ye  no  care ; 
Inothynge  am  a  colde; 
I  am  so  wrapped 
And  thoroghlie  lapped, 
In  joly  goode  ale  and  olde. 
CEREVLSIA  BIBUNT  HOMINES 
ANIMALIA  CETERA  FONTES !" 

It  has  been  deeply  regretted  by  the  French  lifres-lofres,  or 
literary  loafers  of  the  present  day,  that  so  little  is  known  of  the  pri 
vate  life  and  adventures  of  Des  Perriers.  Now,  if  they  will  make 
it  worth  the  while,  I  will  undertake  to  supply  the  deficiency.  I 
will  tell  you  how  he  first  obtained  a  copy  of  Aristophanes,  availing 
himself  of  the  occasion  to  kiss  the  bookseller's  daughter ;  how  he 
quarrelled  with  Cardanus  about  the  souls  of  the  stars,  and  visited 
Cornelius  Agrippa  for  the  purpose  of  interpolating  an  anecdote  into 


122 


SKETCH-BOOK    OF    ME,    MEISTER    KARL. 


a  little  work  on  which  the  latter  was  then  engaged  ;  said  work 
being  entitled  "Of  the  Badaults  and  Gulllcmettes  of  Paris;" 
which  visit  gave  occasion  to  a  certain  chapter  in  Eabelais — 

"  Panurge  consults  Her  Trippa, 
Believest  THOU,  0  King  AGUIPPA  !"* 

"Dicam  quod  mirandum  verum"  as  Drunken  Barnaby  hath  it. 
All  of  these  fine  things,  not  less  wonderful  than  true,  will  I  do 
out  of  philanthropy  and  a  love  for  letters ;  ID  EST— for  a  con 
sideration.  For  what,  in  this  money-getting  generation,  would 
the  public  think  of  me,  if  I  were  to  do  it  for  nothing  ? 

"My  readers  they  would  me  despise, 
Turn  me  over,  and  damn  my  eyes." 

"  Literary  Public,  shouldst  thou  relish  this  preamble,  en  avanf, 
there's  more  sour-krout  for  thee,  and  luon  pro  vi  faccia."  But 
for  this  present  reading,  let  the  following  choice  old  Flemish 
ballad  suffice : — 


.VAN 


SCHRYVERTJE. 


ICK  hoorde  een  waterje  ruiselen, 
My  docht  het  was  de  Ryu  ; 

Ick  heb  er  te  nacht  gheslapen, 
By  een  bruin  maechdelyn." 

n. 
Ilebt  ghy  te  nacht  gheslapen 

By  een  bruin  maechdelyn? 
Dats  morghen  suit  ghy  hanghen 

Al  aen  een  galle  ghelyn." 

in. 
Waerom  so  son  de  ick  hanghen  ? 

Ick  ben  voorwaer  geen  dief  ; 
Het  hertje  van  myn  jonc  leven 

Haeft  schone  joncvroutjes  lief." 

rv. 
Ende  dat  verhoorde  een  vroutje 

So  rijken  lantsheer  syn  wyf  ; 
Sy  liet  haer  paerdeken  sadelen, 

T'was  om  den  schryver  syn  lyf. 

V. 

Doe  dat  paert  ghesadelt  was, 
De  spore  was  aengedaen, 

Doe  most  dat  lose  schryvertje 
Tor  galgo  opwaert  gaen. 


OP   THE    SCHOLAR. 

i. 

"  I  HEARD  the  water  rippling  by, 
I  thought  it  was  the  Rhine ; 
I  sat  last  night  till  morning  shone, 
By  that  true  love  of  mine." 

n. 
"  And  didst  thou  sit  till  morning  shone, 

A  lovely  lady  by  ? 

Then  thou  shalt  hang  to-morrow  noon 
Upon  a  gallows  high." 

in. 
"  Oh,  why  should  I  on  gallows  high 

Hang  like  a  thief  in  air? 

No  other  sin  is  on  my  soul 

Save  love  for  ladies  fair." 

IV. 

That  heard  a  dame  of  high  degree, 
The  wealthy  Landgrave's  wife: 

She  bade  them  saddle  her  palfrey  good, 
And  all  for  the  scholar  his  life. 

v. 
And  when  they  had  saddled  that  palfrey 

Her  spurs  well  bound  below,        [good, 
So  must  the  gallant  scholar  in  haste 

To  the  gallows  upward  go. 


Pippa  Passes. 


MEISTER   KARL    DISCUSSES   VALETS-DE-PLACE. 


123 


n. 

Maer  doen  hy  op  de  leder  clam, 

Al  op  de  derde  trap, 
Hy  keec  so  dickmaels  omme 

Offer  niemant  voor  hem  bat. 

vn. 
"  Myn  heren,"  sei  sy,  "  myn  heren, 

Wilt  doch  een  wort  verstaen, 
Of  daer  een  goelick  vroutje 
Quam  Toor  uw  beddeken  staen  ?" 

vift. 

"  Dat  daer  een  goelick  vrouwetje 

Quam  voor  myn  betje  staen  ? 

Ick  souse  so  heimelick  kussen, 

In  myn  blanc  arm  ontfae"n." 

IX. 

"  Sout  ghise  so  heimelick  cussen, 

In  uw  blanc  arm  ontfaen  ? 

So  heeft  dat  lose  schryvertje — 

Ooc  anders  niet  misdaen." 

x. 
"  Com  af,  com  af,  loos  schryvertje, 

Behouden  is  uw  lyf ; 
Dat  heft  gedaen  een  vroutje, 
So  riken  lantsheer  syn  wyf." 

XI. 

"  Heeft  dat  gedaen  een  vroutje, 
So  riken  lantsheer  syn  wyf? 
Behouden  moet  si  haer  eertje, 
Ende  ick  myn  jonghe  lyf." 


And  as  he  up  the  ladder  went, 
And  stood  beneath  the  limb, 

So  oft  looked  he  around  to  see 
If  no  one  prayed  for  him. 

VII. 

"  My  lords,"  said  she,  "  my  noble  lords, 

Oh,  will  ye  list  to  me? 
What  would  you  do  if  a  fair  lady 
Should  choose  you  her  love  to  be?" 

VIII. 

"  What  would  I  do  if  a  fair  lady 

Should  yield  to  me  her  charms  ? 
I  would  kiss  her,  I  ween,  a  thousand  times, 
And  fold  her  in  my  arms." 

IX. 

"  And  would  you  kiss  her  a  thousand  times 

When  you  her  love  had  won  ? 
That  scholar  on  the  gallows  tree 
The  selfsame  thing  hath  done." 

x. 

"Come  down,  come  down,  thou  reckless 
A  lady  hath  saved  thy  life;         [blade, 
A  fair  lady  of  high  degree, 
The  wealthy  Landgrave's  wife." 

XI. 

"  Hath  that  a  lady  done  for  me, 

The  wealthy  Landgrave's  wife  ? 
May  she  for  aye  her  honour  keep, 
And  I  in  peace  my  life." 


CHAPTER  THE  SEVENTEENTH. 


IN     WHICH     MEISTER     KARL     DISCUSSES     VALETS-DE-PLACE    IN 
GENERAL,  AND    THOSE    OP    MUNICH    IN    PARTICULAR. 

"  Wouldn't  you  like  to  take  a  look  round  town  this  evening,  sir  ?  I  know 
the  ropes  as  well  as  any  man,  and  where  the  '  buffers'  are.  I'll  take  care  that 
nobody  RINGS  INTO  YOU."  BEAU  HICKMAN. 

THERE  is  a  curious  variety  of  literature,  which,  as  it  is  found 
in  every  country,  will  bear,  and  consequently  merits,  examina 
tion  and  classification :  I  mean  those  vida  tunantesca,  hop-and- 

11* 


124  SKETCH-BOOK    OF    ME,    MEISTER   KARL. 

go-dirty,  tag-rag  and  bob-tail,  outside  romances  and  biographies, 
which  so  generally  hold  a  sort  of  slovenly  immortality  in  the  red 
republic  of  letters.  Such,  for  example,  is  the  life  of  Bamfylde 
Moore  Carew,  Defoe's  Captain  Jack,  Jonathan  Wild,  etc.,  the 
highest  popular  type  of  which,  in  English,  is  Ainsworth's  Jack 
Sheppard ;  La  Vie  de  Cartouch,  Memoires  de  Vidocq,  Casanova 
de  Seingalt,  with  an  immense  library  of  others  in  French  •  and 
the  so-called  picaresque  Spanish  novels,  such  as  Guzman  d' Alfa- 
rache,  Picara  Justina,  Lazarillo  de  Tonnes,  El  Escudero  Marcas 
de  Obregon,  and  Quevedo's  "Adventures  of  a  Sharper;"  of 
which,  in  a  literary  point  of  view,  the  latter  is  by  far  the  best. 

It  may  be  objected,  that  a  vigorous  continuation  of  illustra 
tions  might  demand  that  I  also  include  Gil  Bias,  Schiller's  Rob 
bers,  and  in  poetry  a  few  dashes  from  Don  Juan  or  the  Corsair. 
To  which  I  indignantly  reply,  that  I  allude  to  the  roots  which 
stick  in  the  mud,  and  not  the  umbrageous  branches  which 
lift  their  shady  summits,  laden  with  golden  fruit  and  similar 
sauce,  to  the  cerulean  firmament  above.  True,  they  are  not 
by  any  means  the  neatest  works  in  existence.  But  as  Science 
kindly  permits  her  votaries  vivisection,  and  the  analysis  of 
kakodyle,  so  Literature  may,  at  times,  allow  her  children  the 
privilege  of  criticism,  and  even  of  discussing  such  productions  as 
these. 

But  if  you  think  that  I  intend  discussing  them,  you're  mis 
taken.  Yet,  as  I  was  glancing  over,  this  evening,  one  or  two  of 
these  melancholy,  dirty,  dreary,  forlorn,  cloudy,  sorrowful  pro 
ductions,  which,  as  a  class,  have  a  decided  flavour  of  greasy 
leaden  spoons  and  warm  dish-water,  I  could  not  help  thinking 
how  far  mistaken  their  authors  were,  to  imagine  that,  because  low 
life  presented  certain  incongruities  and  peculiarities  not  to  be 
found  in  the  land  of  soap  and  towels,  it  must  necessarily  be  in 
tensely  redolent  of  wit  and  humour.  A  sad  mistake,  and  yet  not 
an  uncommon  one  among  would-be  fast  men. 

If  I  can  ever  get  to  the  idea  I  meant  to  have  started  with,  I 
would  say  that  the  reader  who  has  ever  examined  the  putrefac 
tions  of  this  nature,  found  in  the  Spanish  strata,  must  have  ob 
served  that,  when  other  resources  fail,  the  hero  not  unfrequently 
takes  to  showing  strangers  around  the  town,  running  errands,  con 
ducting  intrigues,  carroteeing  on  commissions,  and  other  similar 
efforts  of  genius — functions  which,  at  the  present  day,  are  fulfilled 


MEISTER   KARL   DISCUSSES   VALETS-DE-PLACE.  125 

on  the  Continent  by  a  class  of  outlaws  known  as  valcts-dc-placej 
or  Lohndieners. 

The  only  valet-de-place  I  ever  met  with  who  pretended  to 
have  a  religion,  was  an  old  fellow  who,  for  aught  I  know,  is  even 
yet  hanging  round  the  Grand  Hotel  of  the  "Drei  Moliren"  or 
"  Three  Niggers,"  in  Augsburg.  And,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  only 
heard  of  this  one.  The  Wolf  wanted  a  valet-de-place  for  some 
thing  or  other,  when  the  Frenchified  head-waiter  informed  him 
that  he  was  heart-broken  and  agonized  at  being  obliged  to  say 
that  the  gentleman  must  wait  half  an  hour  before  the  proper 
functionary  could  be  found.  "  But  is  there  not  another  valet-de- 
place  about?"  asked  Wolf.  "Mais  oui,  yes,  there  was  another 
old  fellow,"  replied  the  waiter,  shrugging  his  shoulders,  closing 
his  eyes,  and  shaking  his  head  slowly,  as  if  apologizing  for  some 
incurable  defect  or  vice:  "but  he  would  not  suit  monsieur:  he 
is,  unfortunately,  pious  !" 

After  all,  it  might  have  been  only  a  malicious  lie  on  the  part 
of  the  head-waiter,  to  blacken  and  destroy  the  poor  old  man's 
character.  And  I  am  the  more  inclined  to  this  opinion,  because 
the  waiter,  observing  the  facility  with  which  Wolf  swallowed 
this  almost  incredible  choker,  proceeded  to  "  paint  the  lily"  by 
narrating  a  romantic  little  fiction  about  the  old  valet's  being  at 

that  very  instant  in  church,  and,  very  probably,  praying 

on  his  knees ! 

Now  I  put  it  to  the  reader,  was  not  this  "  cutting  it  entirely 
too  fat,"  although  it  did  happen  at  the  time  to  be  Sunday? 

Not  but  that  a  valet-de-place  can  "come"  a  religion  in  double- 
quick  time,  if  expedient.  I  have  known  one  to  be  suddenly 
converted  to  Judaism  when  reminded,  after  a  long  tramp,  of  the 
curious  coincidence  of  its  being  Friday  and  nearly  sundown. 
But  if  he  suspects  his  employer  of  religious  tendencies,  his  own 
devotion  becomes  truly  edifying.  I  shall  not  soon  forget  the  in 
cident  which  occurred  to  Mr.  S.,  a  worthy  Hinglishman,  doing 
the  Continent  with  family  and  servants.  S.  had  been  informed, 
on  credible  authority,  that  any  persons  who  should  venture  to 
smoke  while  passing  a  sentinel,  or  omit  to  take  off  their  hats  be 
fore  a  church,  would  be,  if  not  immediately  shot  or  arrested,  at 
least  the  subjects  of  great  scandal  to  all  loyal  and  pious  citizens. 
For  which  reason,  Mr.  S.  kept  a  bright  look-out  for  churches, 
and  bowed  in  passing  with  so  much  unction,  that  the  pious  Ca- 


126  SKETCH-BOOK   OF   ME,    MEISTER   KARL. 

tholic  bystanders  were  loud  in  his  praise,  and  unanimously 
swore  that,  though  an  Englishman,  he  was  evidently  a  Christian, 
and  not  a  Protestant.  So  that  all  went  very  well  for  a  day  or 
two;  when  one  morning,  in  a  fit  of  absence  of  mind,  passing  by 
the  house  of  Lola  Montez,  then  Countess  of  Landsfeldt,  he 
glanced  hurriedly  up,  and,  mistaking  the  building  for  a  small 
church,  or  at  least  a  chapel,  quickly  removed  his  hat,  in  which 
act  of  devotion  he  was  at  once  seconded  by  all  the  gentlemen  of 
the  party,  including  the  valet-dc-pla.ee,  who,  in  the  excess  of  his 
piety,  almost  bowed  to  the  ground. 

"But  such  devotion  endureth  never."  Which  observation, 
as  you  were  about  very  justly  to  remark,  reader,  is  what  the  pious 
Friar  Gerundio  de  Zcrotes,  in  his  sermons,  would  term  a  "Pero- 
grullada"  or  Peter  Grullo's  truth;  id  est,  a  truism,  or  a  well- 
known  truth,  which  is  a  truth  known  to  everybody — 

"No  hay  puta  ni  ladron, 
Que  tenga  su  devocion." 

"  There  ne'er  was  a  thief  or  wanton  wife, 
Whose  piety  endured  for  life." 

To  which  a  Koman  valet-de-place,  or  commissario,  might  reply 
from  Machiavelli,  u>Tis  not  absolutely  necessary  for  a  gentleman 
to  be  religious,  but  highly  expedient  for  him  to  appear  so/' 
Which  wretched  maxim,  being  thoroughly  despised  by  all  genuine, 
jolly  good-fellows,  I  turn  over  to  the  readers  of  Chesterfield  or 
Pope,  the  admirers  of  Bernini  in  sculpture,  of  Boucher  and  Yan- 
der  Werff  in  painting,  and  that  most  exquisite  of  idyllo-mythologic 
styles  in  architecture,  known  as  the  Rococo,  or  Baroque,  of  the 
golden  age  of  Louis  XV. 

But  to  return  to  my  valets-de-place.  One  evening,  in  this 
same  city  of  Munich,  while  returning  from  the  Royal  Library, 
with  a  wearisome  big  folio  under  my  arm,  urged  partly  by  fatigue 
and  partly  by  a  nervous  eagerness  to  dip  into  the  contents  of 
said  book,  I  entered  an  out-of-the-way,  old-fashioned  coffee-house, 
and,  while  waiting  for  the  Her  which,  in  a  genuine  Bavarian 
kucip,  is  always  brought  without  order  immediately  to  the  guest, 
busied  myself  with  leafing  over  my  new  acquisition.  At  the  next 
table  sat  five  of  the  same  scamps  I  have  been  speaking  of;  and 
having  already  employed  two  or  three  of  them  at  different  times 
on  little  affairs,  I  was  profoundly  greeted  by  the  whole  party  on 


MEISTER   KARL   DISCUSSES   VALETS-DE   PLACE.  127 

my  entrance.  Knowing  me,  therefore,  to  be  a  stranger,  and  pre 
suming  on  my  ignorance  of  their  abominable  patois,  they  kept 
on  conversing  in  the  same  high,  South-German  pitch,  without 
reserve  or  caution. 

"A'  what  did  you  yesterday,  Bua?"  said  the  oldest  and  keen 
est  of  the  five,  to  a  somewhat  younger  corn-rogue. 

"I  had  a  young  English  yellow-bill  (green-horn)  to  trot  about 
town,"  was  the  reply;  "and  I  must  show  him  every  thing,  all 
at  once.  And  I  went  to  have  his  passport  visted,  and  found  that 
he  was  to  leave  town  early  this  morning.  So,  when  we  came  to 
the  Glyptotlielc,  (gallery  of  statues)  and  the  Pinacothek,  (picture- 
gallery,)  I  told  him  that  they  were  closed  on  Monday,  and  that 
no  one  could  enter  without  a  special  order;  but  that  if  he  would 
give  the  porters  each  a  florin,  and  promise  to  say  nothing  about 
it,  I  could  get  him  in ;  which  he  did,  and  I  afterward  shared 
with  them.  And  he  read  all  the  while  in  his  red-covered  guide 
book;  and  at  last  hit,  I  suppose,  on  the  place  which  tells  that  the 
valets-de-place  are  such  great  scamps,  and  in  league  with  all  the 
shop-keepers." 

Here  the  narrator  was  interrupted  by  a  general  roar  of  laugh 
ter,  and  the  party,  draining  their  mass' Is,  clapped  down  simulta 
neously  the  deckels  or  lids,  as  a  summons  for  more.  And  while 
puffing  at  his  pipe,  he  continued — 

"  So,  looking  very  cunning,  he  asked  me  if  I  could  tell  him  a 
good  place  to  buy  some  linen.  So  I  drew  up  indignantly,  and 
told  him  that  the  business  of  a  cicerone  was  to  show  strangers 
curiosities  and  works  of  art,  or  to  interpret  French  and  English, 
but  not  to  hunt  up  shops,  and  that  he  must  ask  the  landlord  for 
that. 

"Then  he  appeared  quite  astonished,  and,  changing  his  tone, 
said  that  he  did  not  want  any  linen,  but  would  like  to  buy  a  new 
carpet-bag  and  some  other  little  items,  and  would  take  it  as  a 
great  favour  if  I  would,  only  for  once,  just  recommend  an  honest 
dealer.  And  I  answered,  '  that  I  had  never  done  such  a  thing 
before,  but  as  he  was  to  leave  town  to-morrow,  (for  which  I  was 
thankful  in  my  heart,)  I  would  take  him  to  a  very  honest  man 
in  the  Kaufinger  Gasse;'  which  I  did,  and  we  squeezed  three 
prices  out  of  him,  of  which  I  got  one.  Then,  as  he  had  full  re 
liance  on  my  honesty,  and  was  too  tired  to  go  himself,  he  sent 
me  to  ask  of  the  banker  what  was  the  premium  on  English  gold. 


128  SKETCH-BOOK    OF    ME,    MEIST'ER    KARL. 

So  I  guessed  what  was  coming,  and  when  I  had  learned  from 
Herr  von  Hirsch's  clerk  that  it  was  3.18,  I  returned  and  re 
ported  1.18.  Then  he  sent  me  -vith  a  rouleau  of  guineas  to  sell 
for  him,  so  that,  praise  the  LORD  and  our  Lady  of  Altotting !  I 
made  a  good  day's  work  of  it." 

(i  Bischt  a  ganza  Kerl,  du  schlaua,  sackrisclia,  alxjedrelite 
Bescliti!  complete,  finished  fox  that  you  are!"  cried  the  elder 
valet.  "  Heaven  send  such  days  daily,  and  eight  times  a  week 
in  Lent !  HURRAH  FOR  STRANGERS  V 

These  last  three  words  he  expressed  distinctly  in  good  Ger 
man,  for  my  gratification.  I  continued  to  pore  over  my  book. 

"And  you,  Casperl,"  was  now  asked  of  another,  "blows  the 
wind  straight  or  crooked?" 

"  Pretty  fair.  My  bird  yesterday  was  a  Frenchman,  and  not 
so  much  of  a  fool  as  one  could  wish.  He  trotted  through  the 
picture-gallery  with  his  cane  run  up  the  sleeve  of  his  coat,  and 
the  end  hidden  in  his  handkerchief,  in  order  to  save  the  three 
kreutzers  (two  cents)  which  he  ought  to  have  given  the  porter 
for  taking  care  of  it.  But  he  looked  hard,  and  talked  loosely 
about  the  Yenuses,  and  such  like,  so  I  soon  found  where  the 
shoe  pinched.  Then  he  gave  me  a  glass  of  beer  at  Schnitzerl's, 
and  talked  all  the  while,  fast  as  lightning,  about  the  nobility  and 
immorality  of  Munich.  Then  he  asked  me  if  I  thought  a  gen 
tleman  could  make  any  bonnes  fortunes  here,  among  the  beautiful 
ladies.  So  I  would  not  answer  him  at  once,  but  began  by  ex 
plaining  how  deeply  we  valets-deface  were  implicated  and  con 
cerned  in  all  the  secrets  of  the  nobility  and  gentry,  being  their 
confidential  messengers  I" 

Here  a  general  burst  of  laughter  unanimously  proclaimed  the 
richness  of  this  last  lie,  on  the  strength  of  which  the  party  ven 
tured  a  drink  all  round,  and  again  clapped  the  mug-covers. 

"My  Frenchman  listened  attentively,  but  was  not  green  enough 
to  pin  his  faith  to  any  thing.  But  when  I  hinted  at  a  certain 
charming  countess,  who,  to  my  positive  knowledge  through  her 
femme-de-chambre,  had  been  very  susceptible  and  sentimental 
since  the  death  of  her  late  husband,  who  had  left  her  in  very 
moderate  circumstances,  I  could  see  my  Frenchman  begin  to 
kindle. 

"'Eh  d  table!'  said  he;  'but  how  must  we  arrange  it,  then,  to 
console  the  fair  widow  ?' 


MEISTER   KARL   DISCUSSES   VALETS-DE-PLACE.  129 

"'Oh,  there  are  fifty  ways;  but,  monsieur  understands,  the 
thing  must  be  done  delicately,  doucement:  the  family  pride — 
honour,  you  know !' 

"Here  my  Frenchman  struck  his  heart,  and  shut  his  eyes  and 
mouth,  smiling  horribly. 

"<  Au  rcste,  monsieur  knows  that  in  our  free-and-easy  city  we 
have  less  fiddle-faddle  and  ceremony,  and  acquaintances  are  more 
readily  made,  than  in  Paris.  I  will  contrive  that  you  knock  at 
her  suite  of  rooms;  the  girl  will  admit  you,  (but  I  must  pay  her 
something  handsome,  of  course;)  you  will  see  madame,  and  in 
quire  if  there  are  not  apartments  in  the  house  to  let.  She  adores 
the  French;  and  if,  with  the  appearance  and  manners  of  mon 
sieur ' 

"Here  my  Frenchman  gave  a  yell  of  delight,  and  jumped 
with  joy.  I  kept  on  : 

"'For  if  I  were  .not  perfectly  certain,  from  monsieur's  aristo 
cratic  air  and  elegant  style,  of  his  success,  I  would  never  have 
ventured  to  aid  him  in  obtaining  such  a  splendid  "  bonne  fortune." 
Of  course,  monsieur  knows  that  the  valets-de-place  generally  do 
nothing  of  the  kind  for  the  ordinary  run  of  strangers,  who  come 
and  go,  and  pay  and  share  alike.' 

"Here  my  Frenchman  broke  in  with — ' Sois  content,  mon 
garcon.  Be  content,  my  boy;  if  you  can  play  Leporello  well, 
I  am  quite  as  capable  of  the  role  of  Don  Juan.'  And  as  he,  of 
course,  with  his  head  full  of  the  countess,  could  look  at  nothing 
and  think  of  nothing  else,  I  had  an  easy  day's  work  of  it.  So,  in 
the  evening " 

"But  who  the  devil  was  the  countess?"  simultaneously  cried 
the  entire  company. 

"H'm — h'rn !  that  is  my  business.  However,  one  Lohndiener 
must  not  play  against  another,  and  spoil  trade;  so  I'll  tell  you, 

if  you'll  do  as  much  for  me  another  time.  It  was  Frau  Yon , 

who  keeps  the  fancy-store  in  the strasse." 

"So!"  cried  one:  "but  she  really  has  a  title." 

"Yes,  and  so  has  the  Baron  SULZBECK,  and  the  swine  who 
runs  errands  at  the  Ober  Poll-in ger.  But  the  title  is  all  wursf, 
(of  no  importance;)  and  you  know  what  'poor,  proud,  wad  pretty' 
comes  to  in  Munich.  Well,  my  Frenchman  had  sense  enough 
to  know,  that  though  a  man  may  be  close  in  other  items,  he 
shouldn't  be  mean  where  women  are  concerned;  so  I  got  from 


130  SKETCH-BOOK    OF   ME,    MEISTER   KARL. 

him  a  gold  Caroline  for  the  waiting-maid,  one  for  myself,  and,  if 
the  frail  only  plays  her  cards  well,  Heaven  knows  how  much 
for  us  "all." 

"Nu*,  dos  war  notiibel,"  (not  so  bad,)  "  Pompb's,"  (splendid,) 
"  Gratulir,"  (I  congratulate  you,)  were  the  compliments  elicited 
by  the  recital  of  this  masterpiece  of  honourable  talent.  But  the 
silence  which  ensued  was  presently  broken  by  the  oldest  villain 
himself,  who  remarked — 

"I  didn't  make  much  money  myself,  yesterday;  but  what  I  did 
get  was  easily  earned,  for  I  was  paid  for  doing  nothing." 

"So;  wahrhafti' !"     "Really!"  cried  the  confederacy. 

"Yes;  I  served  government;  that  is,  the  police,  curse  their 
souls !  Four  or  five  days  since,  the  Herr  Inspektor  came  to  me, 
and  said — 'To-morrow,  a  tall  gentleman,  a  Badensor,  now  on  his 
way  hither  from  Zurich,  will  arrive  at  your  hotel.  He  is  a  poli 
tical  refugee,  and  will  attempt,  under  the  assumed  name  of  Stark- 
enberg,  to  revisit  his  wife  and  children  in  Carlsruhe.  Give  him 
early  in  the  morning  this  note,  and,  when  he  demands  a  valet-de- 
place,  see  that  the  man  whom  I  shall  send  here,  and  no  other, 
serves  him/  So  I  waited,  and  when  the  gentleman  arrived, 
gave  him  the  billet." 

"But  you  read  it  first?" 

"  VcrsteJit  sich — of  course.  It  was  a  forged  jnvitation  from 

the  Herr ,  whom  the  police  watch  so  much,  to  attend  a 

private,  liberal,  or  revolutionary  meeting  in  the  evening;  place 
not  designated;  to  be  told  him  by  the  valet,  in  whom,  he  was 
informed,  he  might  implicitly  confide." 

"Ha!  ha!  ha!  poor  devil!"  burst  forth  again  in  chorus  the 
confratres. 

"Yes;  they  twisted  him  like  wire — beautifully!"  continued 
the  good  old  man.  "And  you  ought  to  have  seen  the  fellow  they 
sent  for  valet.  You  know  him;  the  'lange  BarteT  Herr  Jes' ! 
the  rogue,  with  that  smooth  tongue  of  his,  could  wheedle  oil  out 
of  flints.  So  he  took  my  poor  Badensor  to  the  club,  where  he 

was  arrested  immediately  after,  with  the  student  S ,  and  is 

now,  I  suppose,  enjoying  pleasure  and  repose  at  the  expense  of 
government." 

This  last  humorous  adventure  was  by  no  means  lost  on  the 
audience.  Suddenly,  one  exclaimed — 

"I  can  tell  you  that  not  a  man  in  Munich  drives  a  prettier, 


MEISTER   KARL   DISCUSSES   VALETS-DE-PLACE.  131 

safer,  or  more  constant  business  than  myself,  since  I  have  gone 
into  the  picture-line." 

"But,  all  the  devils!  where  did  you  ever  learn  any  thing 
about  such  stuff?"  inquired  the  patriarch. 

"  Ja,  that's  all  to  come;  for  I  know  as  much  of  pictures  as  a 
swine,  and  not  much  more  than  yourself,  though  I  have  visited 
every  gallery  in  Munich  daily  for  the  last  ten  years.  But  there 
are  a  lot  of  young  artists  here  who  paint  old  pictures,  and  give 
me  good  commissions  for  getting  them  off.  So,  when  a  fat- 
headed  Englishman  gets  me  to  show  him  round,  I  let  him  gabble 
as  much  as  he  likes,  (for  every  valet  knows  that  it  is  most  profit 
able  to  let  strangers  tell  you  every  thing  for  which  you  are  paid 
to  tell  them,)  and  when  I  get  a  little  into  his  confidence,  say — <I 
wonder  that  you  gentlemen  can  take  such  interest  in  pictures. 
Why,  I  know  an  old  woman  here  in  town  who  has  several  fine 
ones,  nearly  as  good  as  those  in  the  gallery/  Then  my  gentle 
man,  whether  he  suspects  me  to  be  a  scamp  or  not,  generally 
asks  where  they  are;  but  I  try  to  dissuade  him;  tell  him  that 
she  lives  in  a  dirty,  out-of-the-way  house;  that  the  pictures  are 
very  old,  and  so  on;  and  generally  end  by  taking  him  off  to  my 
own  den,  where  my  wife,  who  plays  the  part  of  old  woman,  sells 
him  something,  for  the  benefit  of  myself  and  the  artists.  Some 
times,  for  the  sake  of  variety,  and  to  add  to  the  romance  of  the 
thing,  I  hide  the  pictures  away  in  lofts,  lumber-rooms,  and  gar 
rets.  Sometimes  my  eldest  daughter,  who  is  a  nice  girl  and  sly 
as  a  mouse,  takes  the  part  of  virtuous  poverty,  and,  with  tears  in 
her  eyes,  sells  milord  an  old  painting,  her  father's  dying  gift  and 
only  souvenir,  which  milord  sometimes  gives  back  again,  and 
which  miladi,  after  a  hard  bargain,  always  insists  on  doing. 
Again,  for  the  sake  of  variety,  I  occasionally  move  the  establish 
ment  out  of  town,  to  some  neighbouring  village  or  farm;  so  that, 
what  with  one  thing  and  another,  I  do  pretty  well.  Gentlemen, 
I  drink  your  healths." 

Here  a  somewhat  noisy  pause  ensued,  which  was  broken  by 
one  of  the  quintette  inquiring,  in  a  low  tone — 

"  Casperl,  you  have  been  employed  by  the  gentleman  yonder, 
with  the  big  book  :  what  is  he  for  a  stranger  ?" 

"Jtij  he  doesn't  live  next  door.  He  is  an  American — under 
stood?" 

"  AME-RI-CAN— the  devil !     But  not  a  born  American  ?" 

12 


132  SKETCH-BOOK   OF   ME,    MEISTER   KARL. 

"Yes." 

"So-o-oU" 

The  reader  must  know,  that  in  Germany  every  man  who  has 
even  visited  our  country  is  termed  American :  consequently,  on 
announcing  one's  Hail-Columbianism,  he  is  generally  asked,  " Aber 
eingtboren  f — but  were  you  born  there  ?" 

"  But/'  remarked  one  of  the  company,  "  everybody  knows  that 
the  Americans  are  either  black,  green,  or  red,  and  the  gentleman 
there  is  quite  white.  Strangers  who  go  there  remain  as  they  are; 
but,  even  in  the  first  generation,  their  children  are  almost  boot 
black.  Some,  indeed,  really  become  so." 

"Fact?" 

"Yes;  when  I  lived  in  Suabia,  by  Heilbronn,  there  was  a 
neighbour  of  my  father's  who  was  away  many  years  in  America, 
and  he  returned  very  rich,  with  "his  only  daughter,  who  was,  in 
deed,  not  exactly  black,  but  something  the  colour  of  a  half-cooked 
doughnut.  And  her  father  said  that  she  would  have  become  quite 
so,  as  dark  as  iron,  had  she  not  been  fed  every  day  on  peaches 
and  cream,  which,  in  that  country,  preserves  the  complexion." 

"  Then  the  gentleman  with  the  big  book  must  have  been  re 
markably  fond  of  fruit,"  remarked  Casperl. 

"  They  say,"  resumed  the  Nestor  of  the  gang,  "  that  America 
is  a  land  of  gold,  butter,  and  pan-cakes,  very  glorious  to  behold. 
And  it  must  be  a  part  of  China,  of  course,  because  tea  grows 
there;  and,  as  the  world  is  round,  it  lies  the  other  side  of 
England." 

"  But  how  do  you  know  that  tea  grows  there  ?"  asked  Casperl. 

"  Because  I  have  heard  that  the  English  once  fought  with  the 
Americans,  who  are  a  sort  of  English,  you  know,  and  speak  the 
same  language,  only  better.  And  it  was  all  because  the  Ameri 
cans  wouldn't  grow  tea  for  them  at  the  price  they  offered." 

"  That  is  not  improbable,"  rejoined  Casperl ;  "  for  the  English 
at  our  hotel  drink  fearful  quantities  of  the  nasty  slop,  and  gene 
rally  dispute  the  bill.  But  are  the  Americans  all  like  the 
English  ?" 

"  Gott  bewahr  !  They  were  once,  but  of  late  years  so  many  Ger 
mans  have  gone  there,  that,  before  long,  every  thing  will  be  in  that 
country  as  it  now  is  here  in  Bavaria,  or  rather  in  Switzerland." 

"  What  is  the  reason  that  Englishmen  travel  so  much,"  asked 
Valet  Number  Four,  becoming  discursive. 


MEISTER    KARL   DISCUSSES    VALETS-DE-PLACE.  133 

"It  is,"  answered  the  sage,  "partly  because  comfort  and  hap 
piness  are  unknown  to  them  at  home,  so  that  they  must  travel  to 
find  them,  and  partly  because  they  are  all  slightly  insane,  and 
consequently  restless.  I  have  often  heard  the  waiters  at  our 
hotel  say  that  the  English  tumble,  and  toss,  and  wake  up  a  dozen 
times  in  the  night :  such  people  always  travel/' 

(N.B.  If  the  reader  ever  tried  a  South  German  seidlitz-box 
bed,  with  an  eider-down  cover,  he  may  understand  why  the  bold 
Britons  alluded  to  were  so  restless.) 

"  But  is  England  really  such  a  wretched  country  ?"  inquired 
Casperl. 

"Versteht  sich — of  course!"  replied  another.  "Why,  you 
know  that  the  only  days  on  which  we  amuse  ourselves  here  are 
the  feasts  and  Sundays.  Now,  in  England  they  have  no  feasts, 
and  on  Sundays  they  close  the  houses,  go  to  church,  and  are  very 
miserable,  so  that  it  is  the  dullest  day  in  the  week.  Even  the 
theatres  and  balls  are  closed  ! !" 

"Pah!"  replied  another;  "that  I  would  call  treating  the  day 
with  great  disrespect.  But  then  Protestants  and  heretics  would 
as  lieve  break  the  Sabbath  as  not,  I  suppose  ?" 

"Of  course,"  answered  the  patriarch.  "Not  that  I  care  for 
Sunday  myself,  or  have  any  religious  scruples ;  but  I  do  like 
to  see  people  amuse  themselves  on  that  day  as  Christians 
ought." 

"  The  English,  I  know,  are  all  a  little  crazy,"  remarked  Casperl, 
"  because  they  are  so  eager  to  see  every  thing  that  none  of  their 
countrymen  have  seen ;  and  whenever  I  take  one  to  look  at  any 
out-of-the-way  curiosity,  I  always  tell  him  that  he  is  the  first 
stranger  that  ever  beheld  it.  Besides,  you  must  have  noticed  that 
their  clothes  are  always  cut  very  close,  and  narrow,  and  uncom 
fortable,  like  straight-jackets  :  and  this  is  done  by  order  of  their 
physicians,  that  the  madness  may  be  restrained.  Ah,  you  may 
rest  assured  that,  with  all  their  money,  they  are  very  un 
happy  !" 

"  Talking  of  rich  people,"  said  Number  Three,  "  what  is  the 
reason  that  the  Russians,  though  so  very  wealthy,  are  so  con 
foundedly  keen  ?  I  can  make  more  any  day  out  of  a  simple 
English  gentleman  than  a  Russian  duke." 

"Ja,  dos  weis  i'  wirldi*  not:  that  I  really  don't  know,  unless 
it  be  that  they  gamble  so  much,  as  do  the  Poles.  They  say 


134  SKETCH-BOOK   OP   ME,    MEISTER   KARL. 

that  Russians  learn  the  cards,  with  their  prayers,  before  the 
A,  B,  C." 

"  That/'  said  Casperl,  "  is  because  they  believe  the  queen  of 
hearts  to  be  the  Virgin  MARY.  They  are  so  suspicious  and  mis 
trustful,  that  it  is  the  only  way  their  priests  can  find  to  make 
them  believe  in  any  tiling." 

"  I  don't  know  that  we  Bavarians  are  much  more  intelligent, 
if  you  come  to  that !"  said  Number  Three.  "  You  must  all  of  you 
have  often  seen  the  Waffen,  or  coat-of-arms  of  our  city ;  there's 
one  painted  on  the  University  window,  and  another  carved  in 
stone  over  the  Carlsthor — geltjja?" 

"  What !  the  MUENCHNER  MANNERL?"  (the  mannikin  or  dwarf 
of  Munich.)  "  Certainly/'  replied  the  rest  in  chorus. 

"  Well,  the  mannikin  is  a  monk.  Now,  the  name  of  our  city 
of  Ming  a,  which  other  people  call  Miincha,  the  English,  Munich, 
and  some  few  out-of-the-world  North  Germans,  MUENCHEN,  comes 
from  the  word  JUonch,  (monk.") 

"  WaJirliafti' — indeed  !"  cried  the  rest.  "  Where  did  you 
learn  that  ?" 

"  From  an  English  gentleman.  Now,  can  any  of  you  tell  me 
what  it  is  he  holds  in  his  right  hand  ?" 

li  Why  a  beer-mug,  of  course/'  chorused  the  party. 

"  Yes,  and  so  I  thought,  with  all  the  town,  until  lately.  But 
the  truth  is,  that  it  is  a  book,  though  what  sort  of  a  book  is  more 
than  I  know :  and  this  I  heard  a  very  learned  man  say." 

t(  Oh,  it's  a  Latin  book,  of  course,"  remarked  Casperl.  ll  But 
are  you  sure  it's  not  a  beer-mug  ?" 

"  Yes ;  I  looked  and  found  it  so,  because  it  has  no  lid." 

"  Neither  have  the  beer-glasses  in  Baden,"  replied  Casperl, 
who  evidently  mistrusted  this  new  light. 

"  But  they  are  of  glass,  I  tell  you — transparent  glass ;  while 
that  which  the  Mannerl  holds  is  deep  brown." 

"That's  because  it's  full  of  beer — brown-beer"  replied  Cas 
perl,  driven  to  the  Voltairian  system  of  defence. 

"  Fudge  !  As  if  a  monk  ever  kept  a  full  mug  in  his  fist ! 
Why,  he  would  empty  it,  like  yourself,  in  a  second." 

And  with  this  the  brave  and  gentle  party  arose,  and  having 
paid  the  zecli,  went  roaringly  along,  singing  merrily  the  following 
gasscnliaucr,  or  loafer-lyric — a  favourite  song  in  Munich  : — 


MEISTER   KARL   DISCUSSES   VALETS-DE-PLACE.  135 

STREET    SONG   OF   MUNICH. 
(FIRST  VOICE.) 

"Bel  der  Nacht  wenn's  finster  ist." 
By  the  night  when  all  is  dark, 
And  no  one  in  the  street  I  mark, 

Hallo — you  there,  afar ! 

Let  me  light  my  cigar. 
Let  me  light  when  all  is  dark, 
And  no  one  in  the  street  I  mark. 
(SECOND  VOICE.) 

Fishes  we  will  catch, 

Fishes  we  will  snatch 
By  the  night,  when  all  is  dark, 
And  no  one  else  around  we  mark. 

Fish  in  ditch  or  fish  in  dyke, 

Fish  in  ponds,  or  where  you  like. 
(FIRST  VOICE.) 

But  at  night  we  must  catch, 

Yes,  at  night  we  must  snatch ! 

(CHORUS.) 

Yes,  at  night,  when  all  is  dark, 
And  no  one  else  around  we  mark. 
(FIRST  VOICE.) 

Ladies  we  will  catch, 

Ladies  we  will  snatch. 
By  the  night,  when  all  is  dark, 
And  no  one  else  around  we  mark, 
Ladies  fair  we'll  catch  with  play, 
When  the  husband's  far  away. 
(CHORUS.) 

But  at  night  we  must  catch, 

Yes,  at  night  we  must  snatch. 
Yes,  at  night,  when  all  is  dark,  &c. 
(FIRST  VOICE.) 

Maidens  let  us  catch  ! 

Maidens  let  us  snatch  ! 
Yes,  at  night,  when  all  is  dark, 
And  no  one  else  around  we  mark. 

(SECOND  VOICE.) 

Maidens  young  and  maidens  fair, 
Nab  them,  grab  them  everywhere. 

But  at  night  we  must  catch, 

Yes,  at  night  we  must  snatch  ! 
Yes,  at  night,  when  all  is  dark, 
And  no  one  else  around  we  mark. 

Hallo — you  there,  afar  ! 

Let  me  light  my  cigar. 
Let  me  light — since  all  is  dark, 
And  no  ono  else  around  we  mark ! 
12* 


136  SKETCH-BOOK    OF    ME,    MEISTER   KARL, 

(Song  proceeds  extemporically  and  ad  libitum-ically  up  the 
street,  with  occasional  interruptions  from  the  police,  or  squalls 
from  unprotected  females.) 


CHAPTER  THE  EIGHTEENTH. 

IN  WHICH  MEISTER  KARL,  PROMPTED  BY  THE  SOUVENIR  OP 
THE  NUMBER  OF  BEAUTIFUL  FACES  WHICH  HE  HAS  £EEN 
FRAMED  IN  WINDOWS,  DISCOURSES  ON  THE  AFFINITIES  EX 
ISTING  BETWEEN  THE  TWO. 


"  I  SAT  over  against  a  -window,  and  had  my  eyes  fixed  thereon,  when  of  a 
sudden  it  opened,  and  a  young  lady  appeared,  whose  beauty  struck  mo." 

ARABIAN  NIGHTS. 

"LECTEUR  MON  AMY!"  Reader,  my  friend  !  didst  thou  ever 
fall  in  love  with  a  fair  face  which  appeared  from  time  to  time  at 
an  opposite  window  !  Didst  thou  never,  gazing,  wonder  whether 
this  apposition  or  coincidence  of  residence  was  not  a  special 
admonition,  mystically  heralding  an  ultimate  union  of  souls? 
Didst  thou  never  feel  that  daily  increased  thrill,  or  smart, 

"  Which  was  felt  about  the  heart," 

as  gazing  ripened  into  acquaintanceship,  and  acquaintanceship 
into  love?  The  first  bold  "How-do-you-do,  good-morning  nod," 
and  its  ultimate  return  —  the  deaf  and  dumb  alphabet  —  (if  you 
knew  it)  —  and  the  intense  queerity  usually  attendant  upon  your 
first  conversation,  whether  held  in  street  or  salon  ?  If  not,  thou 
hast  (crede  experto  Roberto)  never  experienced  the  most  piquant 
method  of  beginning  or  managing  a  love-chase  —  a  method,  I  may 
venture  to  assert,  which,  in  point  of  true  romance,  as  far  sur 
passes  all  masked  ball  and  carnival  adventures,  "as  lovelie 
May  is  morrowe  doth  mydnighte." 

The  beauty  of  "Window  Love"  has,  of  course,  not  escaped  the 
notice  of  the  race  of  rhymers.  Every  bard  of  true  feeling  has 
experienced  it,  from  the  New  Orleans  Minstrel, 


WINDOW   LOVE.  137 

Who  saw  her  at  the  window, 

With  all  her  fixings  on, 
As  lovely  and  as  tender 

As  a  lily  bud  in  June — 

to  the  exquisite  Uhland,  who  thus  briefly  chronicles  his  own  ex 
periences  : — 

I  quit  my  narrow  room  but  rarely, 

Yet  even  here  is  labour  sore  ; 
My  books  are  open  late  and  early, 

Still  o'er  the  self-same  page  I  pore. 
For,  ah,  that  flute  so  softly  pealing, 

First  leads  my  willing  soul  astray, 

And  now  one  glance  I  must  be  stealing 

At  my  fair  neighbour  o'er  the  way ! 

It  is  needless  to  mention,  that  from  the  occult  and  mysterious 
nature  of  Window  Love,  it  has  been  most  assiduously  cultivated 
and  sung  in  Germany,  though  Italy  be  the  true  country  of  its 
birth  and  most  peculiar  home — on  the  same  principle,  we  pre 
sume,  that  Art  and  Music,  though  originally  Italian,  are  gene 
rally  admitted  to  be  better  understood,  or  at  least  more  energeti 
cally  expounded,  in  the  Teutonic  Fatherland.  Riickert's  sweet 
est  and  most  popular  poem  sings  the  praises  of  iidie  schcene 
Naclibarinn"  or  his  own  Window  Love  w.ith  a  fair  neighbour, 
while  a  well-known  ballad  declares  that 

The  brightest  gem  on  earth  below, 
The  fairest  maiden  earth  can  show, 
The  beauty  most  admired  by  me 
Dwells,  from  my  window,  vis-a-vis  ! 

Schiller,  the  lofty  and  ideal,  has  employed  Window  Love,  as 
being  naturally  the  highest  and  purest  form  with  which  "  love 
Platonical"  could  be  invested.  Witness  his  "  Hitter  Toggen- 
burg:--  , 

Gazing  on  that  window  stay'd  ho  : 

Hours  he  there  would  hang, 
Till  the  lattice  of  his  ladye 

Oped  with  welcome  clang  ; 
Till  her  lovely  looks  entrancing 

All  his  sense  the  while, 
Calm  adown  the  dale  were  glancing, 

Sweet  as  angel's  smile. 
Till  her  lovely  looks  entrancing 

All  his  sense  the  while, 
Calm  adown  the  vale  were  glancing, 

Sweet  as  angel's  smile. 


138  SKETCH-BOOK    OF    ME,    MEISTER    KARL. 

And  so  sat  he  there,  one  morning, 

Lifeless — without  fail, 
To  that  lattice  loved  still  turning 

His  cold  face  so  pale.  • 

This,  reader,  it  must  be  admitted — as  the  French  lady  re 
marked — when  she  embroidered  the  fingers  of  her  gloves,  and 
the  tips  of  her  slippers  with  darts  and  Cupids — was  "  Love — in 
extremis  !" 

And  this  last  illustration  from  Schiller,  0  reader,  suggests 
yet  another  in  the  "  Come-to-thy-lattice-love"  school  of  poetry, 
which  is  nothing  more  nor  less  than  some  rhymes  of  mine  own, 
written  while  under  the  influence  of  a  heart-rending  attack  of 
Window  Love,  and  which  I  here  subjoin,  as  in  a  degree  express 
ing  its  power : — 

Methought  I  lay,  beside  the  dark  blue  Rhine, 

In  that  old  tower  where  once  Sir  lloland  dwelt  ; 
Methought  his  gentle  lady-love  was  mine; 

And  mine  the  cares  and  pain  that  once  he  felt. 
Dim,  cloudy  centuries  had  roll'd  away — 

E'en  to  that  minstrel  age,  the  olden  time, 
When  Roland's  lady  bade  him  woo  no  more, 

And  he,  aweary,  sought  the  Eastern  clime. 

Methought  that  I,  like  him,  had  wandor'd  long 

In  those  strange  lands  of  which  old  legends  tell; 
Then  home  I  turn'd  to  my  own  glancing  Rhine, 

And  found  my  lady  in  a  convent  cell; 
And  I,  like  him,  had  watch'd  long  years  away, 

And  dwelt,  unseen,  hard  by  her  convent's  bound, 
In  that  old  tower,  which  yet  stands  pitying 

The  cloister-isle,  enclosed  by  water  round. 

I  long  had  watch'd — for  in  the  early  morn, 

To  ope  her  lattice  came  that  lady  oft; 
And  earnestly  I  gazed — yet  naught  I  saw, 

Save  one  small  hand  and  arm — white,  fair,  and  soft. 
And  when,  at  eve,  the  long,  dark  shadows  fell 

O'er  rock  and  valley,  vineyard,  town,  and  tower, 
Again  she  came — again  that  small,  white  hand 

Would  close  her  lattice  for  the  vesper  hour. 

I  lingered  still — e'en  when  the  silent  night 

Had  cast  its  sable  mantle  o'er  the  shrine, 
To  see  her  lonely  taper's  soften'd  light 

Gleam,  far  reflected,  o'er  the  quiet  Rhine : 
But  most  I  loved  to  see  her  form,  at  times, 

Obscure  those  beams — for  then  her  shade  would  fall, 
And  I  beheld  it — evenly  portray 'd, 

A  living  profile,  on  that  window  small. 


WINDOW  LOVE.  139 

And  thus  I  lived  in  love — though  not  in  hope, 

And  thus  I  watch'd  that  maiden  many  a  year, 
When,  lo !  I  saw,  one  morn,  a  funeral  train — 

Alas  !  they  bore  my  lady  to  her  bier  ! 
And  she  was  dead — yet  grieved  I  not  therefor, 

For  now  in  heaven  she  knew  the  love  I  felt. 
Death  cannot  kill  affection — nor  destroy 

The  holy  peace  wherein  I  long  had  dwelt. 

Oh,  gentle  lady !  this  was  but  a  dream  ! 

And  in  a  dream  I  bore  all  this  for  thee. 
If  thus,  in  sleep,  love's  pangs  assail  my  soul, 

Think,  lady,  what  my  wakiny  hours  must  be. 
The  golden  age  of  chivalry  hath  fled ; 

Its  glory  gone — its  splendour  pass'd  away. 
Well,  be  it  so  !     Romance  expires  with  Youth ; 

But  Love — true  Spirit  Love — can  ne'er  decay ! 

Who  has  not  read  the  beautiful  legend  of  Musaeus  on  "  Dumb 
Love/'  wherein  a  young  gallant  loses  his  heart  after  the  most 
approved  fashion,  to  the  lovely  vis-a-vis  of  a  neighbouring  win 
dow?  Sooth  to  say,  the  matter  is  more  readily  arranged  in 
South  Germany  than  with  us;  since,  in  that  country,  every  cu 
rious  matron  and  fair  maiden  hath,  attached  to  the  outer  edge  of 
her  window-frame,  a  mirror,  which,  when  adjusted  at  the  proper 
angle,  shows  all  that  is  passing  in  the  neighbourhood,  without 
exposing  the  observer ! 

Tom  Hood  has  been  said  to  exhibit  more  true  feeling  and  deeper 
pathos  in  his  poems  than  any  bard  of  the  present  century — an 
assertion  fully  established  by  the  fact  that  he  appreciated  the  su 
perior  power  of  Window  Love.  Hear,  ye  advocates  of  regular 
parlour  and  church-going  courtships,  how  exquisitely  the  vis-a-vis 
affection  inspired  him — 

Alas  !  the  flames  of  an  tmhappy  lover 
About  iny  heart  and  on  my  vitals  prey : 
I've  caught  a  fever  that  I  can't  get  over — 
Over  the  way ! 

I've  gazed  too  often,  till  my  heart's  as  lost 
0  As  any  needle  in  a  stack  of  hay : 

Crosses  belong  to  Love — and  mine  is  crossed — 
Over  the  way ! 

I  cannot  read  or  write,  or  thoughts  relax — 

Of  what  avail  Lord  Althorp  or  Earl  Gray  ? 

They  cannot  ease  me  of  my  window-tax — 

Over  the  way  I 


140  SKETCH-BOOK   OP   ME,    MEISTER   KARL. 

Even  on  Sunday  my  devotions  vary, 
And  from  St.  Bennet  Fink  they  go  astray 
To  dear  St.  Mary  Overy— the  Mary 

Over  the  way ! 

But  how  to  breathe  to  her  my  deep  regards, 
Or  ask  her  for  a  whispered  yea  or  nay — 
Or  offer  her  my  hand — at  thirty  yards — 
Over  the  way ! 

Cold  as  the  pole  she  is  to  my  adoring — 
Like  Captain  Lyon  at  Repulse's  Bay, 
I  meet  an  icy  end  to  my  exploring — 

Over  the  way ! 

There  is  no  doubt  but  that  love,  caught  from  a  window,  is  infi 
nitely  more  overpowering  than  that  inspired  from  any  other 
source.  We  see  but  the  beautiful  face — perhaps  the  lovely  bust 
or  entrancing  three-quarter  length.  Imagination  supplies  the 
rest — I  mean  the  general  maintien,  tournure,  and  air  ;  and  imagi 
nation,  you  all  know,  my  readers,  generally  gives  good  measure. 
Then  the  curtains  waving  in  the  wind,  and  all  the  dim,  delicious 
mysteries  latent  within — cologne — slippers !  Hold — ne  inducas 
nos  in  temptationem  ! 

Studium  impedit  ante  fenestram, 
Visa  Venus. 

"  You  cannot  study  before  a  window  from  which  a  pretty  wo 
man  is  looking,"  says  the  old  humourist  in  the  Crepundia  Poet- 
ica.  Of  course  not.  I  have  heard  of  a  youth  who  continued 
to  pore  over  his  Conic  Sections  after  a  rope  had  been  fitted 
round  his  neck;  but  I  verily  believe,  that  if  somebody  had  at 
that  instant  pointed  out  to  him,  as  to  Claude  Duval,  some  pretty 
pitying  face  at  a  window,  he  would  have  forgotten  both  his  mor 
tal  misery  and  his  mathematics. 

The  terrible  intensity  of  Window  Love,  and  the  facility  with 
which  it  turns  aside  even  the  powerful  influence  of  avarice,  is 
beautifully  illustrated  in  a  nail-new  (as  the  Germans  say)  and 
perfectly  authentic  anecdote  of  Meyerbeer. 

When  this  great  composer  resided  in  Paris,  occupied  with  his 
opera  of  "  Count  Ory,"  he  was  not  unfrcquently  shocked  to  hear, 
in  the  room  immediately  over  his  own,  what  appeared  to  his 
practised  ears  to  be  the  most  abominable  jangling  and  piano- 
thumping  that  ever  disgraced  the  name  of  music.  On  inquiry, 
he  found  that  these  insults  to  St.  Cecilia — which  generally  en- 


WINDOW   LOVE.  141 

dured  all  day,  and  occasionally  the  greater  part  of  tlie  night — 
were  caused  by  a  young  medical  student,  who  was — au  reste — 
poor  as  a  crow.  Wishing  to  insure  peace  and  quietness  for  the 
more  advantageous  prosecution  of  his  own  studies,  the  generous 
musician  offered  his  young  tormentor  two  hundred  francs  per 
month,  on  condition  that  he  would  abstain  from  all  noise  what 
ever;  which  the  latter  at  once  readily  accepted. 

For  three  weeks,  a  deep  if  not  a  holy  calm  reigned  triumphant 
in  the  hotel.  But  on  the  afternoon  of  the  Sunday  succeeding 
this  blessed  period,  M.  de  Meyerbeer  was  startled  from  a  deeply- 
inspired  fit  by  a  brain-distracting  sweep  and  a  series  of  fearful 
discords  on  the  piano-forte  above. 

Half  mad  at  the  interruption,  Meyerbeer  rushed  frantically 
up  stairs,  and  burst  into  the  room  of  his  musical  enemy.  But 
he  found  the  latter  in  a — if  possible — still  greater  fit  of  excitement. 

"  Here  !  take  back  your  gold  !"  exclaimed  he,  holding  out  to 
Meyerbeer  a  package  of  one  hundred  and  fifty  francs,  in  bank 
notes.  "Millions  would  not  now  tempt  me  to  be  silent !" 

"What — what  is  the  matter,  my  friend ?"  exclaimed  Meyer 
beer,  awed  by  the  enthusiasm  of  the  student. 

"  In  the  opposite  house,  where  you  behold  yon  latticed  win 
dow/'  replied  the  latter,  "  dwells  a  beautiful  young  lady.  For 
merly,  when  I  touched  the  piano,  she  would  appear,  smile,  and 
listen.  During  the  past  three  weeks  she  has  not  once  been  visi 
ble,  probably  imagining,  from  my  silence,  that  I  was  dead  or 
departed.  This  afternoon  I  again  played,  and  broke  our  contract 
— but  oh,  happiness  !  she  came  to  the  window,  bearing  a  bouquet, 
and  threw  it,  in  her  joy,  to  me  !" 

The  good  Meyerbeer  at  once  perceived  that  nothing  could  be 
done  in  such  a  case,  and  contented  himself  with  providing  the 
young  student,  at  his  own  expense,  with  an  excellent  teacher  of 
music,  that  his  own  ears  might  in  future  be  less  jarred  by  the 
discord  of  harsh  sounds. 

If  we  search  into  the  antiquities  of  Window  Love,  we  find 
that  the  Ladye-Love  of  the  Squyer  of  Lowe-Degre  was  seated  in 
her  oryall,  or  bow-window,  when  she  first  became  aware  of  the 
state  of  her  lover's  heart. 

Thys  ladye  hearde  hys  mournyng  all 
In  her  oryall  where  she  was 
Enclosed  it  was  with  royal  glas. 


142  SKETCH-BOOK   OF   ME,    MEISTER   KARL. 

And  it  was  from  the  window  that  she  reciprocated  his  affec 
tion. 

Herr  Heinrich  von  Moninge — "  The  noble  Moringer" — a  gen 
tleman  and  a  poet,  appears  to  have  caught  his  Window  Love  in 
the  year  1225,  to  judge  from  the  following  verse,  then  written — 

Sach  icman  die  frouwen 
Die  man  mac  schouwen 
In  dem  venster  stan  ? 

In  which  he  inquires  if  any  one  has  seen  his  ladye  "  standing  in 
the  window  ?" 

Window  Love  has  given  many  a  young  lady  a  beau  when  other 
expedients  have  failed — though,  in  sooth,  much  depends  upon 
the  beauty  of  the  lady  herself.  Witness  the  old  song  of  Number 
One— 

Miss  S.,  you  know,  has  got  a  beau — 

Her  fortune  still  is  kind  ! — 
By  sitting  in  the  window-bow, 

Without  a  bit  of  blind ; 
But  /  sit  in  the  balcony, 

Which  she  has  never  done ; 
Yet  arts  that  thrive  at  Number  Five, 

Don't  take  at  Number  One. 

Very  true ;  but  if  that  young  lady  had  remained,  like 

My  own  dear  Lucinda, 
A-seated  at  the  window, 

she  would,  doubtless,  ere  long,  have  found  some  gentle  swain 
with  taste  sufficient  to  discover  that 

She  looked  so  bright,  and  her  eyes  so  light, 
That  he'd  give  his  soul  to  be  in  dar. 

And  apropos  of  this  last  illustration,  reader,  permit  me  to  remark 
that  it  gloriously  confutes  'the  absurd  assertion,  so  prevalent  of 
late  years  in  the  newspapers,  that  there  is  no  possible  rhyme  to 
the  word  window. 

What — eight   o'   docJcl Gentle    reader,    we  must  part — 

thou  whither  Fate  calls  thee,  and  I — softly  be  it  spoken — to 
visit  one  whom  I  well  know  will  at  this  hour 
Be  gazing  from  the  window 


A   MUSICAL   DUEL. 


143 


CHAPTER  THE  NINETEENTH. 

A   MUSICAL   DUEL. 

"I  KNOW  A  STORY/'  suddenly  exclaimed  Count  d'Egerlyn, 
one  evening,  as  we  were  taking  supper  at  our  parlour  in  the  St.  Ni 
cholas;  in  New  York.  Now  if  the  count  had  suddenly  sung,  "  I 
know  a  bank  whereon  the  wild  thyme  blows/'  he  would  not 
have  excited  more  astonishment.  For  though  the  count  was 
a  gentleman  of  wit,  a  finished  cosmopolite,  and  a  thorough  good 
fellow,  and  had  moreover  a  beautiful  wife,  he  was  never  known 
to  tell  tales  of  any  description,  either  in  school  or  out  of  it. 

At  the  word  upstarted  Wolf  Short  and  young  C ,  the  latter 

declaring  that  he  was,  like  Time,  all  ears,  while  the  former,  listen 
ing  as  if  dreaming, 

hoard  him  half  in  awe ; 

While  Cabana's  smoke  came  streaming 
Through  his  open  jaw. 

In  a  calm,  bland  voice,  our  good  count  proceeded  to  narrate  a 
curious  incident,  which  I  long  afterward  reduced  to  writing. 
As  I  remember  it,  the  story  would  have  been  far  better  had  it 
been  given  in  the  exact  words  in  which  it  was  originally  told. 
But,  alas !  it  was  hardly  concluded  ere  we  had  to  scramble  off  to 
a  party,  and  the  next  day  we  went  all  together  to  Boston;  and 
it  probably  would  never  had  been  written  out  at  all,  had  I  not 
just  been  reminded  of  it  by  hearing  "our  nigger"  Tom  whistling, 
through  the  hall,  the  air  on  which  it  is  founded. 


Vivace. 


MENDELSOHN  was  a  great  musician. 

Mendelsohn  signifies  "The  son  of  an  almond."    Had  he  been  a 
twin,  they  would  have  christened  him  Philip-ina. 

13 


144  SKETCH-BOOK    OF    ME,    MEISTER    KARL. 

But  as  lie  was  a  Jew,  they  could  not  christen  him.  And  as 
he  was  not  a  twin,  he  consequently  remained  single. 

Which  did  not,  however,  prevent  him  from  being  wedded  to 
Divine  Lady  Music,  as  amateurs  call  her. 

Mendelsohn  composed  "  Songs  without  words."  Many  modern 
poets  give  us  words  without  songs. 

"They  shouldn't  do  so." 

The  story  which  I  am  about  to  relate  is  that  of  a  duel  which 
was  fought  as  Mendelsohn's  songs  were  sung — without  words. 
The  insult,  the  rejoinder,  the  rebutter,  the  sur-rebutter,  and  the 
challenge  were  all  whittled  I 

But  as,  according  to  Fadladeen  in  Lalla  Rookh,  it  is  impossible 
even  for  an  angel  to  carry  a  siyli  in  his  hand,  the  reader  will  not 
find  it  strange  that  such  an  imperfect  sinner  as  myself  should  find 
it  difficult  to  whistle  on  paper  or  in  print. 

I  will,  therefore,  take  the  liberty  of  representing  by  words  the 
few  notes  which  were  whistled  upon  this  melancholy  occasion. 
The  which  notes  are  given  at  the  beginning  of  this  story. 

And  here  the  intelligent  reader  may  remark  that  most  authors 
put  their  notes  at  the  end  of  their  works.  Mine,  however,  come 
before. 


An  Englishman  was  once  seated  in  solitary  silence  in  the 
Cafe  de  France,  solemnly  sipping  sherry  and  smoking  a  cigar. 
His  reverie  was  unbroken,  and  his  only  desire  on  earth  was  that 
it  should  continue  so. 

Suddenly  entered  (as  from  the  Grand  Opera)  a  gay  French 
man,  merrily  whistling  that  odd  little  air  from  Robert  le  JDiable, 
so  well  known  to  all  admirers  of  Meyerbeer  and  contemuers  of 
worldly  wealth  or  sublunary  riches : 

Oh,  but  gold  is  a  chimera ! 
Money  all  a  fleeting  dream  !* 

Now  the  interruption  vexed  our  Englishman.  At  any  time 
he  would  have  wished  the  Frenchman  in  Jerusalem.  At  pre 
sent,  the  whistling  so  much  disturbed  him,  that  he  wished  him 


*  Folle  e  qnei  die  Voro  aduna 
E  iwl  sa  come  goder, 
Non  prov6  giammai  fortuna, 
Che  sta  luiiga  dal  jnacer. 


A   MUSICAL   DUEL.  145 

in  a  far  less  holy  place.  Mind! — I  do  not  mean  New  York, 
though  it  be,  like  Milton's  scaly  sorceress,  close  by  the  "Gate  of 
Hell/' 

Therefore,  in  a  firm  and  decided  tone,  (which  said,  as  plainly 
as  if  he  had  spoken  it,  "I  wish,  sir,  you  would  hold  your  tongue,") 
he  whistled — 

Oh,  but  gold  is  a  chimera ! 
Money  all  a  fleeting  dream ! 

But  the  Frenchman  was  in  high  feather,  and  not  to  be  bluffed. 
He  had  had  a  dinner,  and  a  gloria  of  coffee  and  brandy,  and 
some  eau  sucree  and  a  glass  of  bruleau,  (which,  like  crambambuli, 
consists  of  burnt  brandy  or  rum,  with  sugar.)  He  had  had  a 
cigarette,  or  a  four-cent  government  cigar,  (I  forget  which,)  had 
winked  to  a  pretty  girl  in  the  opera,  and  finally  had  heard  the 
opera  and  Grisi.  In  fact,  he  had  experienced  a  perfect  bender. 
Now  a  bender  is  a  batter,  and  a  batter  is  a  spree,  and  a  spree  is 
a  jollification.  And  the  tendency  of  a  jollification  is  to  exalt  the 
mind  and  elevate  the  feelings.  Therefore  the  feelings  of  the 
Frenchman  were  exalted,  and  in  the  coolest,  indifferentest,  im- 
pudentest,  provokingest  manner  in  the  world,  he  answered  in 
whistling — 

Oh,  but  gold  is  a  chimera ! 
Money  all  a  fleeting  dream  !     ' 

Which,  being  interpreted,  signified,  "I  care  not  a  fig  for  the 
world  in  general, — or  you,  sir,  in  particular !  Stuff  that  you  are  ! 
— Out  upon  you!  Parbleu!  BAH! 

"Do  you  think  that  because  you  are  silent,  all  the  world  must 
be  mum?  Par- r- r- r- r-bleu !  Am  I  to  sneeze  because  you 
snuff?  Par- r-r-' r-bleu!  Ought  I  to  blush  because  you  are 
well  read?  Par-'r-r-r-'r-'r- r-bleu!  Tra—li—ra!  Goto!" 

All  these  words  were  distinctly  intelligible  in  the  chimes,  in 
tonations,  and  accentuations  of  the  Frenchman's  whistle.  And 
to  make  assurance  doubly  sure,  he  sat  himself  down  at  the  same 
tete-d-t$te  table  whereon  the  Englishman  leaned,  at  the  opposite 
seat;  and  displacing,  with  an  impudent  little  shove,  his  cigar- 
case,  continued  to  whistle,  with  all  manner  of  imitating  variations 
and  aggravating  canary-bird  trills,  his  little  air — 

Oh,  but  gold  is  a  chimera ! 
Money  all  a  fleeting  dream ! 


146  SKETCH-BOOK    OF    ME,    MEISTER    KARL. 

"What  I  now  wish  you  to  believe  is,  that  John  Bull  was  in  no 
wise  either  flattered  or  gratified  by  these  little  marks  of  atten 
tion.  Drawing  back  in  his  chair,  he  riveted  a  stare  of  silent  fury 
on  the  Frenchman,  which  might  have  bluffed  a  buifalo,  and  then, 
in  deliberate,  cast-iron  accents,  slowly  whistled,  as  he  rose  from 
the  table  and  beckoned  his  foe  to  follow,  the  air  which  had  so 
greatly  incensed  him — 

Oh,  but  gold  is  a  chimera ! 
Money  all  a  fleeting  dreani ! 

Now  this  last  instrumento-vocal  effort  did  not  express  much, — • 
but  the  little  it  did  express  went,  like  the  widow's  oil  or  a  Paix- 
han  shot,  a  great  way.  It  simply  signified — 

" Coffee  and  pistols  for  two — without  the  coffee!" 
To  which  the  Frenchman,  with  a  bow  of  the  intensest  polite 
ness,  replied, — toujours  en  sifflant — always  in  whistling — 

Oh,  but  gold  is  a  chimera ! 
Money  all  a  fleeting  dream  ! 

Which  was  not  much  more,  and  certainly  no  less,  than — 

"Oh,  if  you  come  to  that,  two  can  play  at  that  game.  Poor 
devil !  what  a  loss  you  will  be  to  the  worthy  and  estimable  society 
of  muffs  and  slow  coaches !  What  will  that  excellent  individual, 
Milady  Popkins,  remark,  when  she  hears  that  I  have  settled  the 
account  of  her  son  without  a  surplus?  After  you,  sir,  if  you 
please !  I  will  directly  have  the  pleasure  of  following  and  kill 
ing  you." 

Out  of  the  cafe,  and  along  the  Boulevards,  strode  the  English 
man,  followed  by  his  new  acquaintance,  both  "whistling  as  they 
went" — certainly  not  "from  want  of  thought."  Whether  it  was 
"to  keep  their  courage  up,"  is  not  written  in  history. 

They  soon  reached  a  hall,  where  the  Englishman  offered  the 
only  weapons  in  his  possession,  excepting  "maulies,"  or  fists, — 
and  these  were  a  pair  of  rapiers. 

And  here  it  would  appear,  gracious  reader,  (if  you  are  gra 
cious,)  that'  either  I,  or  the  Frenchman,  or  both  of  us,  made  a 
great  mistake,  when  we  understood  the  Englishman,  by  the 
sounds  he  uttered  in  his  challenge,  to  signify  the  whistle  of 
pistol-bullets.  It  appears  that  it  was  the  whiz  of  swords,  to 
which  he  had  reference.  But  the  Frenchman,  who  believed 
himself  good  at  all  things  in  general,  and  the  fleurette  in  par- 


A   MUSICAL   DUEL.  147 

ticular,  made  no  scruples,  but — drawing  his  sword  with  a  long 
whistle — struck  a  salute,  and  held  up  a  beautiful  guard,  accom 
panying  every  movement  with  a  note  from  the  original  air  of — 

Oh,  but  gold  is  a  chimera  ! 
Money  all  a  fleeting  dream  ! 

And  now,  reader,  had  I  the  pen  of  the  blind  old  man  of  Scio's 
rocky  isle,  I  would  describe  thee  a  duel  in  the  real  comme  ilfaut, 
two-thirty  style.  Every  note  of  the  air  was  accompanied  by  a 
thrust  or  a  parry.  When  the  Englishman  made  a  thrust  of  low 
carte  seconde,  the  Frenchman  guarded  with  a  semicircle  parade, 
or  an  octave,  (I  forget  which.)  When  the  Frenchman  made  an 
appel,  a  beat,  or  a  glissade,  the  Englishman,  in  no  wise  put  out, 
either  remained  firm  or  put  in  a  time  thrust.  Both  marking 
time  with  the  endless  refrain — 

Oh,  but  gold  is  a  chimera  ! 
Money  all  a  fleeting  dream  ! 

At  last,  an  untimely  thrust  from  the  Englishman's  rapier 
settled  the  business.  The  Frenchman  fell — dropped  his  sword — 
and  whistled  in  slower,  slower  measure  and  broken  accents,  for 
the  last  time,  his  little  melody. 

Reader,  I  have  no  doubt  that  you  have  heard,  ere  now,  the 
opera  of  Lucia  di  Lammermoor,  and  can  well  recall  the  dying 
struggles  and  perishing  notes  of  Edgardo — 

Se  di — vi — si  fumino  in  ter — ra, 

Ne  congiun — ga  ne  congiung — a  il  Nume  in  ciel ! 

Ne  con giun ga,  ah  !  oh  !  Num'  in  ciel — 

I o ti — i — se guo  ! oh  !  Oh  ! 

And  so  it  was  with  our  poor  Frenchman,  who  panted  forth, 
game  to  the  last — 

"  Oh, — but  g-'g-'gold  is  a  chi — mera  ! 
M-'m-'rnon — ey  but  a  fleeee — ." 

And  here — borne  on  the  wings  of  a  last  expiring  whistle — his 
soul  took  its  flight. 

Not  a  word  had  been  spoken  by  either  of  the  combatants ! 


13* 


148  SKETCH-BOOK    OP    ME,    MEISTER   KARL. 


CHAPTER   THE    TWENTIETH. 

THE   LAKE   OF   AGNANO. 

HARK  !  the  faint  bells  of  the  Sunken  City 
Peal  once  more  their  wonted  evening  chime ! 

From  the  deep's  abysses  floats  a  ditty 

Wild  and  wondrous  of  the  olden  time.  RUCKERT. 

On  Lough  Neagh's  banks,  as  the  fisherman  strays, 

When  the  setting  sun's  declining, 
He  sees  the  round-towers  of  other  days 

In  the  wave  beneath  him  shining. 

Thy  waves  have  rolled 
Above  the  cities  of  a  world  gone  by.  MOORE. 

Tune  Archidiaconus :  Ut  sciatis,  quanta  miranda  Yirgilius  in  hac  urbe  fuerit 
operatus,  accedamus  ad  locum,  et  ostendam  quod  in  ille  porta  memoriale  reli- 
querit  Virgilius  super  terrain.  GERVASIUS  DE  TILBURY  DE  OT.  IMP. 

Know'st  thou  that  seas  are  sweeping 

Where  cities  once  have  been  : 
When  the  calm  wave  is  sleeping, 

Their  towers  may  yet  be  seen  ; 
Far  down  below  the  glassy  tide 
Man's  dwellings  where  his  voice  hath  died. 

MRS.  HEMANS. 

NOT  far  from  Naples  lies  the  Lake  of  Agnano,  on  whose  shore 
is  situated  the  celebrated  Grottone  del  Cane.  "This  lake," 
says  De  Ferrari,  "  is  remarkable,  partly  from  the  singular  fact 
that  its  waters,  which  are  very  deep,  are  fresh  on  the  surface 
and  salt  at  bottom;  partly  from  a  strange  bubbling  or  boil 
ing  motion  which  agitates  them  when  full ;  and  partly  because  it 
covers  the  old  Norman  city  of  Angulanum — the  remains  of  which 
may  even  yet  be  discerned  on  a  clear  day.7' 

It  is  said  (and  the  report  dates  back  for  centuries)  that  the 
faint  chime  of  bells,  as  well  as  sweet  music,  is  often  heard  at 
sunset  rising  from  the  lake,  and  that,  at  a  later  hour,  the  gleam 
of  lights  flashes  upward  from  its  waters. 

It  is  not  astonishing  that  there  should  be  legends  connected 
with  this  lake,  for  Naples  and  its  dominion  is  legendary  land. 


THE   LAKE   OF   AGNANO.  149 

Witness  that  exquisitely  quaint  work,  the  Pentamerone  of  Giam- 
battista  Basile,  or  the  "  Italian  Tailor  and  his  Boy/'  or  Li  sept 
Marchands  di  Naples.  And,  in  addition,  we  have  an  entire  cycle 
of  strange  tales,  in  which  the  great  Virgil  figures  not  as  poet, 
but  as  conjuror  and  magician. 

Throughout  the  Middle  Ages,  Virgil  was  regarded,  down  to 
the  days  of  Faust,  as  the  arch-enchanter.  The  Minnesinger  BOPPO 
of  Austria,  in  the  year  1285,  sang — 

Wacre  ich,  als  Aristotiles 

Und  klinde,  als  Virgilius,  zouberie. 

Were  I  like  Aristotle, 

And  could  I,  like  Virgilius,  enchant. 

And  there  is  a  delightful  old  English  black-letter  "boke"  treat 
ing  entirely  of  ye  conjering  of  ye  Nigromauncer  Vergilius,  which 
has  been,  of  late  years,  reprinted  for  the  lovers  of  quaint  lore, 
and  also  translated  by  Von  der  Hagen  into  German. 

The  shade  of  Virgil  appears  for  this  magical  reputation  to  be 
principally  indebted  to  that  glorious  old  gossip,  Gervasius  de 
Tilbury,  to  the  good  monk  Helinandus,  Archdeacon  Pinatellus, 
and  also  to  Alexander  Neckham,  a  Benedictine  of  the  thirteenth 
century.  Gower,  in  his  Confessio  Amantis,  has  a  word  or  two 
to  say  on  the  subject,  and  so,  too,  have  Symphorian  Champier, 
Albertus  de  Elib,  Tostatus  d' Avila,  who  figures  in  the  Moyen  de 
Parvenir,  and  the  speculator  Vincent  de  Beauvais.  Allusions 
to,  and  legends  on,  this  great  subject  may  also  be  found  in  Mont- 
faucon ;  The  Mirabilia  Romae  of  the  twelfth  century ;  Naudaeus 
Apologie;  De  Loyer,  de  Spectris.  lib.  1,  c.  6;  Paracelsus,  Tract, 
de  Imaginibus,  c.  2;  Helmoldus,  Hist.  Slavor.  lib.  4,  c.  19;  Jo 
hannes  Capucinus,  Hist.  Neapolit.  (well  worth  reading;)  The 
Mirror  of  the  World;  Petrarch  in  Itinerario;  Theodoric  &  Niem. 
lib.  3,  de  Schism,  c.  19;  Pontanus;  Vignerus  de  Cypern.  c.  19, 
p.  330,  Alph. ;  Trithemius,  Antipal.  1.  4,  c.  3 ;  and,  finally,  in 
"Les  faits  merveilleux  de  Virgile,  fils  dung  Chevalier  des  Ar 
dennes" 

Such  a  mass  of  legend  piled  up  in  Meister  Karl's  memory, 
during  many  days'  sojourn  in  the  Royal  Library  of  Naples,  must 
needs  have  some  vent.  The  Gcsta  Romanorum  gave  the  hint, 
and,  accordingly,  he  one  morning  astonished  all  his  travelling 
party  in  Naples  by  reading  to  them  the 


150  SKETCH-BOOK     OF    ME,    MEISTER    KARL. 


LEGEND  OF  BERXALDUS. 

Many  ages  since,  when  the  great  King  Arnaldus  ruled  in 
Italie,  there  dwelt  not  far  from  Naples  a  knight  named  Bernal- 
dus,  who  for  his  goodness,  fortune,  and  bravery  was  suruamed 
the  Blest. 

But  at  the  period  in  which  the  legend  begins,  he  was  far  from 
meriting  this  title.  For  he  had  for  a  long  time  been  beset  by 
strange  visions  and  wondrous  fantasies.  Every  night  as  he  slept, 
there  appeared  to  him,  in  a  dream,  the  form  of  a  maiden  of  won 
drous  beauty,  who  sung  of  her  love.  But  when  he  endeavoured 
to  embrace  the  fay,  she  ever  seemed  to  vanish  in  a  sparkling 
rainbow-mist,  amid  rolling  clouds,  into  some  far-away  land  of 
mystery  and  beauty.  And  so  sweet  and  soft  was  the  music  of 
her  song,  that  he  knew  right  well  that  the  vision  came  from  the 
Hidden  World.  But  the  interpretation  thereof  he  could  in  no 
wise  discover. 

But  as  he  sat  one  evening  by  the  Lago  de  Agnano,  and  gazed 
upon  its  waters,  it  chanced  that  the  waves,  as  wont,  became 
strangely  agitated.  And  as  he  gazed,  a  strain  of  music,  soft  and 
sweet,  stole  over  the  waters,  and,  gradually  increasing,  filled  the 
whole  air  with  melody.  And,  little  by  little,  he  began  to  distin 
guish  the  sound  of  a  voice,  and,  finally,  words.  And  great,  in 
deed,  was  his  wonder  when  he  recognised  in  them  the  same  lay 
which  he  had  already  heard  in  dreams.  But  while  he  listened, 
it  gently  died  away. 

"Oh!  thou  all  beautiful  music!"  sighed  the  bewildered 
knight,  "  why  dost  thou  haunt  me  thus  ?  I  seek,  I  know  not 
what,  and  long,  day  by  day,  for  that  which  I  cannot  even  under 
stand.  \V  ould  that  the  mystery  were  solved  I" 

And  as  he  spoke,  he  saw,  standing  by  him,  an  old  man  of  vene 
rable  aspect.  There  was  naught  in  his  appearance  to  awake 
fear ;  and  yet,  as  Bernaldus  gazed,  he  trembled,  for  he  recognised 
in  him  the  potent  magician  Virgilius. 

"Bernaldus,"  said  the  sage,  "I  understand  thy  sorrow.  I 
know  why  thou.  art  troubled  in  spirit,  and  have  come  to  relieve 
thee.  Know  that  it  is  I  who  have  caused  these  mysterious 
dreams,  these  longings  for  something  unknown,  which  shall  now 
be  realized." 


THE   LAKE    OF   AGNANO.  151 

"And  is  it  for  good  or  evil,  0  sage  Virgilius,  that  I  have 
been  thus  perplexed  ?"  replied  the  knight. 

"For  good.  Never  is  the  sunlight  so  pleasing  as  after  a 
dreary  night,  nor  can  this  life  afford  any  joy  greater  than  the 
fulfilment  of  a  dream  of  Love  and  Beauty.  Know  that  thou  art 
beloved  by  the  fair  Parthenope,  beautiful  among  the  Spirits  of 
the  Water — she  who  in  olden  times  was  worshipped  as  the 
founder  and  guardian  of  Naples.  It  is  her  form  which  thou  hast 
seen  in  dreams,  and  her  voice  which  has  sounded  in  thine  ears. 
And  happy  in  her  love,  thou  wilt  live  to  thank  me." 

"  And  why  hast  thou  been  thus  kind  to  a  stranger,  0  wise 
Virgilius?" 

"Dost  thou  not  remember,"  replied  the  sage,  "how,  in  days 
long  past,  thou  didst  rescue  three  fair  maidens  from  shame  and 
death — the  one,  by  thy  valour;  the  second,  by  craft;  the  youngest, 
by  courtesy  ?  The  three  maidens  were  my  daughters,  and  not  to 
me,  but  to  them,  owest  thou  this  reward." 

And  as  Virgilius  spoke,  he  waved  his  wand  thrice  over  the 
lake,  and  cried  aloud — 

"  Thou  fair  Siren  Parthenope,  appear !  Lo,  a  mortal  lover, 
yet  one  most  worthy  of  thy  love,  awaits  thee  !" 

And  while  he  yet  spoke  a  strain  of  solemn  music  rose  from  the 
lake,  and  as  the  last  notes  sounded,  a  maiden  of  wondrous  beauty 
stood  on  the  strand. 

"And  thou  art  here  at  last,"  she  said,  "my  mortal  lover? 
Ages  have  come  and  gone,  bright  mornings  shone  on  my  dancing 
waters,  and  dark  centuries  rolled  over  my  Beautiful  City,  yet  I 
saw  thee  not.  And  now  thou  art  mine — mine  for  Time  and 
Eternity !" 

And  with  these  words  she  sunk  into  his  arms,  then  rising, 
said — 

"  It  is  true  thou  art  mine,  and  forever.  But  much  remains  to 
be  done  ere  thou  canst  enjoy  the  happiness  in  store.  Bernaldus, 
thou  knowest  well  that  there  was  a  time  when  the  name 
of  the  Siren  Parthenope  was  worshipped  far  and  wide — a 
time  when  the  great  and  wise  thought  themselves  honoured  by 
honouring  my  name — a  time  when  priest  and  sage  pointed  to  the 
walls  of  the  Beautiful  City,  raised  by  the  magic  of  my  music,  and 
bade  their  followers  find  in  my  worship  the  truest  path  to  the 
good  and  beautiful.  And  now — how  changed  !  Thou  knowest 


152  SKETCH-BOOK    OF    ME,    MEISTER    KARL. 

that  King  Arnaldus  has  destroyed  every  vestige  of  our  old  re 
ligion,  and  forbidden  his  subjects  to  offer  prayers  at  our  shrines. 
The  faun,  the  nymph,  the  satyr  no  longer  sport  in  the  shady 
groves  of  Arcady,  and  the  dryad  laments  alone  that  enmity 
which  now  exists  between  his  race  and  the  children  of  men.  And 
I— /who  raised  the  city  of  Naples  from  the  rocks  and  sands,. and 
have  ever  watched  over  it  as  the  bright  darling  of  my  heart— am 
contemned  and  scorned,  even  in  it. 

"  Bernaldus,  I  charge  thee,  even  according  to  the  usage  of  that 
earthly  chivalry  which  thou  dost  profess,  that  thou  vindicate  my 
name,  and  proclaim  my  power  before  that  king  who  has  dared  to 
proscribe  my  worship.  I  am  thy  lady — thy  chosen  one.  Do  thou 
therefore,  at  the  grand  tournament  which  is  to  be  held  to-morrow, 
proclaim  my  beauty  against  all  comers.  And  fear  not  the  king. 
In  all  things  the  wise  Virgilius  will  protect  thee  !" 

And  with  these  words  she  vanished.  But  a  strain  of  sweet 
melody  still  lingered  in  the  air,  and  mingled  with  the  sound  of 
the  wavelets  as  they  died  away  upon  the  beach. 

Then  Bernaldus  arose,  and  with  Virgilius  sought  the  city. 
That  night  he  slept  but  little,  for  his  heart  burned  within  him 
for  love  of  the  fair  lady. 

And  on  the  next  morning  the  tournament  was  opened  with 
great  magnificence.  But  as  one  by  one  the  knights  rode  in,  each 
proclaiming  the  name  of  his  lady,  the  king  exclaimed—"  Where 
is  the  brave  knight  Bernaldus ;  and  why  does  he,  who  was  wont 
to  be  first  in  the  ring,  now  delay  ?" 

As  he  spoke,  Bernaldus  rode  in,  fully  arrayed  in  a  suit  of  blue 
and  silver  armour.  And  pausing  in  the  centre,  he  cried  aloud— 
"  Know  all,  that  I  do  here  proclaim  the  beauty  and  power  of  my 
lady,  the  fair  Siren  Parthenope,  above  that  of  all  others.  -  And 
in  her  name  will  I  this  day  hold  the  lists  against  all  coming/' 

Then  a  chill  of  horror  crept  over  those  present,  and  they  whis 
pered—  "  Who  is  this  that  hath  for  a  lady-love  the  bright  devil 
of  the  waters  ?"  And  the  king  was  very  wroth,  but,  restraining 
his  rage,  he  rose  and  said  in  a  grave,  solemn  tone — 

"  Thou  hast  this  day  cast  great  shame  on  all  chivalry  and  on 
thyself.  Thou  hast  sworn,  as  a  true  knight,  to  honour  all  women 
and  the  Holy  Church.  And  lo  ! — thou  hast  now  insulted  the  one 
and  mocked  the  other,  by  offering  thyself  as  the  champion  of  a 
vile  idol  of  heathenesse.  And  for  this  thou  shalt  die." 


THE    LAKE    OF   AGNANO.  158 

Then  Virgilius  spoke  to  the  king,  and  said — "  Nay,  but  take 
not  his  life  !  For  such  a  thing,  that  were  indeed  cruel.  More 
over,  he  hath  not  proclaimed  the  divinity,  but  only  the  beauty 
and  power  of  his  lady,  which  no  one  denyeth." 

"  Wise  Virgilius/'  said  the  king,  "  thou  dost  greatly  err  in 
pleading  for  him,  thereby  aiding  and  sharing  his  guilt.  Yet  he 
shall  not  die,  but  live  a  prisoner.  And  now  will  I  put  this  boasted 
power  of  his  lady,  as  well  as  thine  own  wisdom,  to  the  proof. 
When  the  rock  of  Posilippo  shall  be  cleft  through,  when  a 
mountain  shall  cover  the  Lake  of  Lucrinus,  and  the  strong- walled 
city  of  Angulanum  sink  into  the  water  by  its  side,  then  will  I 
believe  in  the  power  of  his  lady  and  grant  him  freedom  !" 

And  the  tournament  was  held. 

But  that  night  there  was  a  mighty  tempest,  such  as  man  had 
never  witnessed.  And  in  fear,  the  king  called  together  the  sages 
of  his  council,  to  know  what  it  portended.  But  Virgilius  stood 
without,  by  the  gate.  And  as  the  tempest  raged,  he  waved  his 
wand,  and  cried  aloud — 

"Let  the/rs^be  done!" 

And  soon  there  came  a  messenger  to  the  king,  who  announced, 
with  fear  and  trembling,  that  the  rock  of  Posilippo  had  been 
cleft  through,  so  that  the  light  shone  even  from  one  side  to  the 
other. 

But  Virgilius  still  stood  by  the  gate,  and  waving  his  wand, 
cried — "  This  from  rny  first  daughter.  Let  the  second  be  done  !" 

Then  again  there  came  messengers  to  the  king,  announcing 
that  a  mountain  had  arisen  over  that  part  of  Lake  Lucrinus  which 
was  toward  the  city.  But  Virgilius  still  stood  by  the  gate,  and 
cried  aloud — "  This  is  from  my  second  daughter.  Let  the  third 
be  done !" 

And  soon  there  came  yet  others  to  the  king,  who  told  with 
sorrow  that  the  fair  city  of  Angulanum  had  sunk  into  the  Lake  of 
Agnano. 

Then  the  king  cried  aloud,  and  bade  them  hasten  to  the  prison 
and  release  Bernaldus.  But  those  sent  returned,  saying  that  the 
prison  was  open  and  the  knight  gone.  And  from  that  time,  no 
more  was  heard  of  him  on  earth. 

But  the  dwellers  by  the  lake  said  that,  during  the  storm,  a 
maiden  of  marvellous  beauty,  accompanied  by  a  knight,  had  been 
seen  on  the  shore.  And  they  spoke  of  more  than  mortal  music, 


154  SKETCH-BOOK   OF   ME,    MEISTER   KARL. 

which  had  been  heard  around  them,  and  how  the  pair  had  dis 
appeared  beneath  the  waves. 
And  now  where  is  Bernaldus? 

He  woueth  in  the  Land  of  Faery, 

Yet  is  no  fairy  born,  ne  sib  at  all 

To  elves,  but  sprung  of  seed  terrestrial. 


CHAPTER   THE   TWENTY-FIRST. 

IN   WHICH   THE   MEISTER   INDULQETH   IN   VARIOUS   SPRING 
FASHIONS   AND    FANCIES. 


Spring. 


BEM  play  lo  douz  toraps  de  Pascor, 

Quo  fai  fuelhas  e  flors  venire; 
E  play  mi  quant  auz  la  vaudor, 
Dels  auzels  quo  fan  retentire, 
Lor  cban  per  lo  boscatje. 

BERTRAND  DE  BORN. 

The  beautiful  spring  delights  me  well, 

When  flowers  and  leaves  .ire  growing ; 
And  it  pleases  my  heart  to  hear  the  swell 

Of  the  birds'  sweet  chorus  flowing 
In  the  groves.  TRANSLATION. 

Hinculus,  dinculus,  trinculus, 

Holy  boly  bum ; 

The  Latin  for  chain  is  vinculus : 
Inspiratus  sum. 

REV.  MR.  IRVING'S  EXPOSITION  OF  HIS  DOCTRINES. 

MOST  admirable  auditors,  most  reasonable  readers,  and  para- 
gonically  pansophical  patrons  ! 

In  the  spring  of  the  year — when  business  is  looking  up ;  when 
hyacinths  and  other  bulbs  sprout  in  the  gardens ;  when  the  voice 
of  the  pigeon  is  heard  trolling  on  the  stable-roof,  and  that  of  the 
ice-cream  darkey  along  the  sunny  street;  when  ladies,  resuming 
their  long-abandoned  sun-shades,  slide  serenely  along  the  side 
walks,  in  the  imminent  risk  of  being  splashed  by  the  gutteral 
torrents  which,  shaking  off  the  icy  shackles  of  winter,  bound 


SPUING   FASHIONS   AND   FANCIES.  155 

merrily  along ;  when  woollen  is  at  a  discount,  and  panamas  and 
fine  linen  at  a  premium,  and  men  lay  aside  the  tristifications, 
meditations,  and  melancholies  which  the  fogs,  frosts,  and  frigid 
ities  of  winter  have  engendered, — then,  I  say,  it  becomes  the  duty 
of  every  free  spirit  to  second  and  assist  the  progress  of  the  natural 
spring,  by  exciting  in  the  minds  of  others  a  mental  primavera 
of  merriment  and  jollity.  Which  may  be  effected  by  means  of 
paragrams,  which  are  puns ;  by  gaudrioles,  which  are  gayeties ; 
by  facetiae,  which  are  funnise ;  by  jocosities,  which  are  jokes ; 
and  finally,  and  most  excellently,  by  stories,  which,  as  you  all 
know,  are  yarns ;  not  to  mention  gossip,  chat,  fiddle-faddle,  and 
small  talk  generally.*  I,  therefore,  in  virtue  of  my  office  of 
Fun-Finder  and  Flibbertigibbet-General,  after  having  thrown  my 
spirit  into  a  mirific  ecstasy  of  quintessential  inspiration  by  beat 
ing  all  manner  of  bizarre  burlesquerie  on  the  drum  of  deviltry,  and 
fifing  at  least  fifty  high-faluling  fantasies  on  the  mirliton  of  imagi 
nation,  have  finally,  as  you  all  know,  excogitated,  matagrabolized, 
and  perfected — id  est,  translated  or  overset — this  series  of  chapters 
with  which  you  are  now  occupied,  from  the  language  of  my  own 
brain,  into  this  our  English  of  the  nineteenth  century. 

And  I  begun  the  morning,  pen  in  hand,  meaning  to  keep  mer 
rily  on  with  the  work ;  but  as  I  sit  by  my  open  window,  revel 
ling  in  the  delicious  atmosphere  of  one  of  the  first  and  finest 
days  in  spring,  a  different  spirit  inspires  me,  and  an  inexpressible 
longing  comes  over  me  to  fly  far  away  into  other  climes  and 
times.  Oh,  this  spring  fever  ! — it  is  surpassed  in  its  delicious 
delirium  only  by  that  of  love,  to  which,  indeed,  it  is  consan- 
guined  and  allied. 

If  the  old  minstrels  of  the  Middle  Ages  have  no  other  claim, 
they  would  deserve  immortality  for  the  feeling  and  constancy 
with  which  they  have  sung  of  spring  and  summer-tide.  They 
seem  to  have  rightly  recognised  the  delicious  and  indefinable 
dreaminess  which  the  moist,  balmy  air  and  quickening  sunshine 

*  "  Moreover  in  this  tyme  of  the  yere,  called  the  Sprynge-time,  provoked  by 
the  naturall  beautie  and  ioyous  aspecte  of  the  flouryshynge  habyte  of  this  tem- 
porall  worlde,  the  nature  of  them  in  whom  is  any  sparke  of  gentyll  courage, 
requireth  to  solace  and  bankette  with  mutuall  resorte,  communicating  together 
their  fantasyes  and  sundry  devyses,  whych  was  not  abhored  of  the  most  wise 
and  noble  philosophers." — "  THE  BANKETTE  OF  SAPIENCE,"  compyled  by  Syr 
Thomas  Eliot,  A.D.  1534.  Face  aut  tace. 

14 


156  SKETCH-BOOK    OF    ME,    MEISTER    KARL. 

awakens,  disposing  us  to  poetry  and  love.  Not  only  do  the 
polished  verses  of  troubadours  and  minnesingers  perpetually  re 
peat  images  of  vanishing  winter  and  of  new-born  flowers,  but 
even  the  rough-rhyming  romancers,  in  their  humble  style,  con 
tinually  seek  to  renew  in  their  reader's  mind  such  associations : 

In  May  is  miri  time  swithe, 
Foules  in  wode  hem  maken  blithe, 
In  every  lond  arist  blithe  song — 
Jhesus  Christ  be  us  among.* 

Marche  is  hot,  miri,  and  long, 

Foules  singen  her  song, 

Burjons  springeth,  mede  greeneth, 

Of  every  thing  the  heart  keeneth. 

Miri  it  is  in  time  of  June, 
When  fenil  hangeth  abroad  in  towne. 
Violet,  and  rose,  and  flower 
"VVoneth  then  in  maiden's* bower; 
The  sonne  is  hot,  the  day  is  long; 
Fowlis  maketh  miri  song. 

In  time  of  winter  alang  it  is, 
The  fowles  lesen  her  bliss  ; 
The  leves  fallen  off  the  tree, 
llain  alangeth  the  cuntree, 
Maiden  loseth  her  hue, 
And  ever  hi  loveth  that  be  true. 

Among  the  Northern  nations,  the  soft  inspirations  of  Spring 
were  blended  with  the  mystical  shades  of  religion,  and  its  attri 
butes  were  spiritualized  or  raised  to  the  level  of  intelligences. 
The  flowers  and  grass  came  forth,  called  by  the  voice  of  the 
sun;  the  gentle  breezes  sailed  from  the  mountain  caves,  and 
wantoned  idly  here  and  there,  seeking  their  loves;  and  even  the 
storks,  returning  from  their  long,  weary  wanderings,  were  be 
lieved  to  bring  blessings,  and  to  be  endowed  with  a  mysterious 
and  intelligent  nature. 

And,  as  I  gaze  from  my  window,  I  wish,  indeed,  that  I  had 
the  wings  of  the  stork,  and  could  sail  far,  far  away  into  you 
azure  sky,  beyond  those  little  cloudlets — over  rocks  and  rivers, 
cities  and  seas  !  The  stork  !  what  a  legendary  bird  !  In  Ger 
many,  it  is  the  stork  who  brings  the  little  baby-brother  or  sister 


*  Merlin,  Part  2. 


SPRING   FASHIONS    AND    FANCIES.  157 

from  the  Unknown  Land — the  stork  who  perches  on  the  Christ 
mas-tree,  and  the  stork  who  brings  good  luck  to  the  house 
whereon  he  builds. 

Yet  the  stork  is,  in  fact,  a  philosophic,  take-it-easy,  man-of- 
the-world  sort  of  bird,  who  has  profited  by  his  travels,  and  never 
lets  his  reputation  as  accoucheur,  or  luck-bringer,  or  pietist  in 
terfere  in  the  least  with  his  feeding  or  love-making.  He  carries 
his  governor  about  when  the  old  gentleman  has  grown  too  feeble 
to  go  on  a  flyer,  and  finds  him  in  grub,  or  grubs — which  is  more 
than  some  humans  do.  By  dint  of  prowling  about  streets  and 
stables,  and  mixing  much  with  mankind  in  different  hemispheres, 
he  has  become  singularly  imperturbable,  and  will  .stand  on  one 
leg  for  hours  on  a  dung-heap  or  chimney,  without  ruffling  a 
feather,  and  giving  no  signs  of  life  save  an  occasional  knowing 
wink  at  the  world  in  general.  But  the  gravest  and  most  edifying 
spectacle  which  any  one  can  witness  is  to  see  half  a  dozen  storks 
standing  around  a  puddle  and  fishing  for  frogs.  No  one  who  has 
ever  witnessed  the  lazzaroni  patience  which  they  manifest  on 
such  occasions  will  doubt  the  report  which  ascribes  to  them  the 
ability  to  read,  and  that  they  have  availed  themselves  of  this  art 
to  get  by  heart  all  that  Izaak  Walton  has  ever  written. 

In  that  most  eccentric  work,  Les  Euangiles  des  Connoilles,  or 
"  The 'Gospels  of  the  Distaffs,  written  in  the  Honour  and  Praise 
of  Ladies,  and  printed  at  Lyons  in  the  year  1493,"  we  find,  in 
conclusion,  the  following  legend  of  the  stork,  narrated  by  Dame 
Bertha  de  Corne : 

"  My  friends,  for  the  final  conclusion  of  my  Evangile,  as  well 
as  for  the  honour  of  the  holy  Sabbath  which  approacheth,  I  will 
tell  ye  a  marvellous  secret  which  few  men  know.  I  tell  ye  for 
certain  that  the  storks,  who  in  summer  dwell  in  this  land,  and  in 
winter  return  to  their  country,  which '  lieth  round  about  Mount 
Sinai,  are  in  reality  creatures  like  unto  us.  And  it  is  plain  that 
they  have  reason,  since  they  give  and  pay  their  tenths  to  God 
when  they  have  brought  forth  their  young. 

"At  this  conclusion,  arose  Dame  A.  Braye,  who  was  aged  to  a 
wonder,  and  said  that  it  was,  indeed,  true  what  Dame  Bertha  de 
Corne  had  said ;  for  she  had  often  heard  from  her  uncle  Clays 
that  when  he  had  been  at  St.  Katherine's,  near  the  Mount  of 
Sinai,  and,  in  passing  the  deserts,  had  lost,  by  death,  all  his  com 
pany,  he  saw,  afar  off,  a  creature,  to  whom  he  went  and  begun  to 


158  SKETCH-BOOK   OF    ME,    METSTER   KARL. 

demand  his  way  in  Flemish.  The  being  at  once  answered  him, 
showing  the  right  path,  and  going  with  him  a  great  distance. 
And  he  set  forth  all  his  estate,  declaring  that  he  was  a  stork, 
and  that  he  had  a  nest  in  Flanders  on  the  house  of  my  uncle's 
neighbour.  But  Clays,  not  willing  to  believe  this  thing,  begged 
for  some  sign  of  its  truth,  that  he  might,  if  he  ever  returned 
home,  thank  him  for  his  courtesy.  Then  the  stork  pulled  out  a 
gold  ring  which  he  had  picked  up  about  the  house,  and  as  soon 
as  Clay  saw  it,  he  remembered  it,  for  it  was  the  ring  with  which 
he  had  married  Mai  Sanglee  his  wife.  And  the  stork  gave  him 
back  his  ring,  on  condition  that  he  would  in  future  prevent  his 
swine-herds  and  cow-herds  from  troubling  him,  (the  stork,)  as  they 
had  been  in  the  habit  of  doing.  And  after  this  promise,  my 
uncle  bade  him  adieu,  and  returned  to  Bruges,  where  he  lived  so 
happily  and  well  that  when  he  died  he  measured  fourteen  palms 
about  the  waist. " 

Talking  of  storks,  reminds  me  that  I  have  more  than  once 
seen  American  friends  puzzled  in  Germany  by  the  sight  of  these 
odd  birds.  For  example,  one  summer  afternoon  I  found  myself 
at  Wiesbaden,  in  company  with  three  young  New  Yorkers,  Char 
ley  B.,  young  C ,  and  Harry.  Charley  was  gazing  from  the 

parlour  window  into  a  stable-yard,  when  he  suddenly  cried,  in 
amazement,  "Boys!  look  here!  what  the  devil  is  that  great 
bird?" 

"A  penguin,  I  guess,"  said  C ,  who  had  a  faint  idea  that 

there  was  some  such  exotic  fowl. 

tt  Xo — it's  a  Dutch  owl,"  responded  Harry. 

Charley  didn't  like  to  appear  ignorant,  and  after  making  a 
desperate  dive  into  his  earlier  researches  into  picture-book  orni 
thology,  gravely  informed  them  that  he  remembered  that  it  was 
a  dodo — a  bird  very  common  in  Germany,  and  very  fine  eating. 

"Didn't  you  see  that  one  on  the  dinner-table  to-day?"  he 
added.  "  It  was  a  big  thing,  roasted  and  done  over  with  green 
fixin's." 

How  much  more  Charley  would  have  remembered  I  know 
not,  had  not  the  wonder  at  that  instant  taken  flight.  As  it  sailed 
away,  Wolf  entered  the  room,  and,  having  his  attention  called, 
pronounced  it  a  stork . 

And  here  comes  another  puff  of  balmy  spring  air  through  the 
window,  which  blows  my  written  leaves  all  over  the  carpet,  and 


SPRING   FASHIONS   AND   FANCIES.  159 

arches  the  curtains,  and  wantons  about  the  room,  and  then  sinks 
to  silence,  like  a  child  weary  of  play.  I  gather  up  the  pages, 
and  a  thought  suddenly  strikes  me  that  long  ago  in  Heidelberg, 
I  once  wrote  down  some  "  spring  feelings,"  while  thus  seated  at 
a  window,  and  that  the  MS.  thereof  is  even  yet  extant  some 
where  among  my  documents.  Let  us  hunt  for  it,  and  see  if  it 
bears  any  resemblance  to  what  I  have  this  morning  chronicled. 
Ah  !  here  we  are — I  find  it  in  the  very  first  drawer  I  open. 

"January  \\tli!" 

"What  does  this  mean  ?  From  what  I  remember  of  the  scrawl, 
I  could  have  sworn  that  it  was  born  at  least  in  April !  Softly, 
Meister  Karl,  softly !  In  South  Germany,  even  in  midwinter, 
comes  many  a  long,  bright,  sunny  day,  "  when  breezes  are  soft 
and  skies  are  fair" — 

And  Heaven  puts  on  the  blue  of  May. 

These  sunny  days  in  winter  are  the  golden  clasps,  few  and  far 
between,  with  which  the  old  storm-king  adorns  his  snowy  mantle. 
But  to  the  sketch. 

"It  is  a  bright,  gentle  day.  The  sunlight  shines  pleasantly 
on  the  old  ruined  castle,  a  light  haze  spreads  over  the  distant 
landscape,  and  the  hills,  though  wanting  verdure,  smile  in  the 
glad  rays. 

"  Crowds  of  peasants  quaintly  attired,  from  the  Schwarzwald 
and  Neckar  Thai,  are  thronging  the  streets.  Students  with 
long  hair  and  tasselled  pipes  are  lounging  here  and  there.  Girls 
are  chattering  about  the  fountain,  and  aiding  each  other  to 
balance  their  heavy  water-jars  on  their  heads;  and  all  seem  glad 
and  gay. 

"  But  I  am  not  at  rest — I  cannot  be  quiet.  A  love  of  wan 
dering  and  of  travel  is  upon  me.  I  would  fly  with  the  storks 
away  to  distant  lands.  I  have  been  dreaming  of  France  and 
Italy,  and  even  of  my  own  Far  West.  I  linger,  in  imagination, 
in  solemn  Rome.  I  am  once  again  in  Venice,  gazing  by  sun 
light  and  moonlight  on  its  canals,  and  gondolas,  and  palaces.  I 
am  basking  on  the  Mole  with  the  lazzaroni,  and  all  is  fair  and 
lovely.  And  from  these  bright  scenes  gentle  forms  seem  to  rise. 
They  motion  to  me — their  dark  eyes  gleam  on  me,  and  their  mu 
sical  spirit-voices  cry  out,  far,  far  away,  f  Return,  return  !  Come 
again  ere  the  roses  of  life  have  faded,  and  ere  the  golden  Aurora 

14* 


1GO  SKETCH-BOOK    OF    ME,    MEISTER    KARL. 

hath  passed  away  !  Come  again  with  Romance  and  Love — them 
wert  dear  to  us  whilst  thou  didst  linger  in  our  invisible  company 
beneath  blue  skies,  and  among  columns  and  flowers.  Come 
again — again  ! 

11  'The  violets  still  bloom  by  the  broken  arches  and  half-buried 
mosaics  of  Hadrian's  villa.  Moonlight  and  starlight  still  gleam 
over  the  Bay  of  Naples,  and  the  breeze  which  wafts  perfumes 
from  Capri  and  Sorrento  bears  on  its  wings  the  voices  of  the 
children  of  the  Night,  who  sing  strange  lays  of  the  olden  time 
and  of  the  foam-bound  Parthenope.  Wood  and  water  spirits 
still  haunt,  by  moonlight,  the  Sybilline  Grotto  and  the  Lago  d' 
Averno.  All  is  sweet,  and  strange,  and  lovely !  Oh,  come 
again  ! — come  again !' " 

In  these  words  did  the  spirits  of  the  beautiful  places  of  the 
past  call  unto  me.  Peace,  peace !  In  after  days,  the  wood  and 
water  spirits  of  Germany  will  add  their  voices  to  that  beauti 
ful  chorus,  and  thy  soul  will  lend  as  willing  an  ear  to  their  song, 
"Come  again — again !" 

Yes,  spring  is  really  at  work  this  morning.  For  the  last  ten 
minutes  a  demented  little  bird  has  been  hopping  and  leaping  and 
throwing  summersets  in  yonder  tree,  and  keeping  up  a  chicka 
dee-dee  accompaniment  on  the  flageolet  high  trills,  while  he  as 
clearly  sang  at  the  same  time  a  High-Dutch  lyric  in  praise  of 
fine  weather  and  dandelions.  There  he  is  off  again ! — let's 
listen ! — 

Ahi,  nu  kumt  uns  diu  zit,  Hurra !  the  summer  time  is  nigh  ! 

Der  kleinen  vogclline  sane,  Thus  ran  the  birdling's  song: 

Ez  gruonet  wol  diu  linde  breifc,  Now  greeneth  fair  the  linden  high, 

Zergangen  ist  der  winter  lane;  Past  is  the  winter  long. 

Nfi  siht  man  bloumen  wol  getan.  Now  comely  flowers  are  blooming  round, 

An  der  heiden  iiebent  si  ir  schin  :  On  every  field  they  shine : 

Des  wirt  vil  manic  horze  vro  ;  And  every  heart  doth  gayly  bound 

Des  selben  traestet  sich  daz  min.  As  leaps  this  heart  of  mine  ! 

—Ending  with  a  chip,  chip,  chip,  chip,  clier  roo,  cher  roo, 
chcepi/,  cheepy,  cheepy,  checpy,  diooraloo,  die  iceet,  die  weet,  die 
weet,  cher  oodle,  oodle,  ooo,  oo  stave,  translatable  into  no  known 
language. 

The  oldest  poem  in  English  describes  the  coming  of 
spring,  and  I  will  give  it  here,  although  I  have  seen  it  in 
every  newspaper  and  school-book  of  literature  for  the  last  ten 
years. 


SPRING    FASHIONS    AND    FANCIES.  161 


Summer  is  i-cumen  in 

Lhude  sing  cuccu. 
Groweth  sed,  and  bloweth  mod, 

And  springeth  the  wede  nu. 
Sing  cuccu,  cuecu. 

Awe  bleteth  after  lomb  : 
Lhouth  after  calue  cu. 

Bulluc  sterteth,  bucke  verteth, 
Merrie  sing  cuccu, 

Cuccu,  cuccu. 
Wei  singes  thu  cuccu, 

Ne  swik  thu  nauer  nu  : 
Sing  cuccu  nu, 

Sing  cuccu ! 

"  Spring  is  coming"  wrote  somebody  once  in  prose  poetry. 
Spring  is  coming!  hear  the  drumming  of  the  pheasant  all  so 
pleasant  7mid  the  budding  of  the  trees,  and  the  singing  of  the  bees 
in  the  distant,  quiet  wildwood,  where  the  wonted  steps  of  childhood 
seek  in  summer's  sultry  hours  cooling  shades  beneath  the  bowers. 

Yes — this  is  fine  weather  for  the  juveniles ;  and  mightily  do 
they  enjoy  it.  The  more  aristocratic  are  now  elaborately  equipt 
in  short-tailed  frocks,  with  plaid  gaiters  on  their  little  footsy-toot- 
sies ;  and  with  a  yard  of  broad  ribbon  behind,  and  a  mighty  hat 
with  a  trailing  feather  on  their  heads,  are  led  forth,  looking  like 
hand-organ  monkeys,  for  a  walk,  to  the  amazement  of  more  de 
mocratic  infants,  who  having  no  French  bonnes  or  Irish  biddies  to 
carry  them  about  in  cleanly  captivity,  revenge  themselves  on 
Fortune  by  damming  up  puddles,  erecting  chip-forts,  making 
mud-pies,  whooping,  screaming,  and  chasing  each  other,  and  by 
indulging  in  all  that  miscellaneous  and  health-inspiring  mischief 
domestically  known  as  "  running  round  in  the  dirt." 

Sonle  dried-up  old  sinner  once  asserted  that  there  was  so  little 
poetry  in  childhood,  that  he  couldn't  even  find  a  rhyme  to  it. 
No  sooner  had  the  statement  been  bruited  abroad  than  divers 
American  editors  went  to  work  vigorously  to  disprove  it,  and 
their  refutations  were  both  numerous  and  ingenious.  One 
of  them  is  given  in  the  prose  poetry  last  cited — some  of  the 
others  were  are  follows : 

Ye  wanton  imps  of  childhood, 

What  are  ye  doing  there  ? 
Come  down  from  off  that  piled  wood, 

Or  I'll  be  in  your  hair  ! 


162  SKETCH-BOOK    OF    ME,    MEISTER    KARL. 

These  groundnuts  have  been  styled  good, 

Take  some  of  them,  my  dears  ! 
And  thank  the  giver's  mild  mood, 

That  he  don't  box  your  ears  ! 

The  rogues  first  stood  in  wild  inood, 

Then  hastened  from  the  sticks, 
To  save,  as  every  child  would, 

The  peanuts  and  the  licks. 

I  have  heard  a  poet  regret  that  it  was  impossible  to  employ 
sounds  in  writing,  and  to  inspire  his  readers  with  the  melodies 
which  had  suggested  so  many  of  his  songs.  For  my  part,  I  wish 
that  I  could  scatter  sunshine  over  my  pages,  and  cause  the  reader 
to  swim  in  the  delicious  air-bath  of  fine  weather  which  pours  in 
through  niy  window.  Could  books  be  written  in  such  a  manner, 
a  library  would  be  a  Paradise  of  dainty  delights,  for  even  a  half 
penny  ballad  would  obviate  the  necessity  of  winter  clothing,  and 
a  judicious  quotation  might  save  the  expense  of  an  umbrella.  If, 
in  addition  to  this,  the  muse  would  only  inspire  lays  which  would 
board  and  lodge  people,  it  is  not  impossible  that  some  of  the  old- 
fogy  Philistines  might  in  time  be  induced  by  hard  coaxing  to  lay 
aside  a  little  of  the  prejudice  with  which  they  regard  divine 
Poesy  and  its  ministering  bards,  and  even  be  induced  to  give 
them  a  respectable  rank  in  their  world, Heaven  save  the  mark ! 

The  world  is  his  who  enjoys  it  as  the  cloak  is  his  whom  it 
covers,  and  all  the  ipse  dixits  of  all  the  kings  in  the  world — of 
all  the  leaders  of  fashion — of  all  the  old  fogies — of  all  foplings 
and  illiterate  fast  men — of  all  cliques  and  coteries,  cannot  de 
prive  a  man  of,  or  elevate  him  to  the  rank  of  a  true  gentleman — 
cosmopolite — good  fellow — scholarly — bon  Gualtier.  For  a  good- 
hearted  fidd  man  of  the  world  can  look  down  on  all  of  these 
above-specified  humbugs,  but  all  of  their  rank  and  wealth  will 
never  enable  them  to  look  down  on  him. 

If  asked  what  this  burst  of  cosmopolite  laudation  has  to  do 
with  spring,  I  can  only  reply  that  there  is  something  in  the  at 
mosphere  of  a  day  like  this  which  is  eminently  suggestive  of 
freedom  from  all  the  swaddling-bands  of  provincial  humbug  and 
narrow  conventionalism.  The  breeze  which  wafts  me  in  ima<n- 

G 

nation  over  Capri  and  Sorrento,  bears  me  not  so  much  to  the 
Beautiful  as  away  from  all  the  littleness,  and  cant,  and  screeching 
ghostliness  which  gather  at  times  like  rust  around  the  best  of  us. 


SPRING   FASHIONS   AND   FANCIES.  163 

And  so,  bless  the  spring,  I  say,  for  it  is  the  vernal  time  when 
all  good  fellows  flourish  in  high  feather,  and  when  all  things 
swim  along  as  they  list,  the  world  being  then  permitted  to  go  its 
own  way  even  more  than  usual.  The  muslin,  it  is  true,  musses 
hearts  a  little  more  than  it  did  in  cold  weather,  for  there  are 
other  sentiments  which  come  to  a  head  in  these  times  besides  an 
insatiate  craving  for  early  vegetables;  but  these  be  delicious 
cares  which  rather  promote  cosmopolite  philosophy  than  other 
wise.  And  lo !  as  I  write,  there  goes  a  feminine  case  in  point, 
in  such  a  love  of  a  chapeau  with  emeraldine  trimmings,  that  I 
can  fairly  sympathize  with  the  young  lady  who  so  doated  on  pale 
green  silk  that  she  declared  she  could  " really  live  on  it."  And 
the  spring  has  come,  and  the  winter  has  gone,  and  the  birds 
they  sing,  and  the  buds  they  blow,  and  the  pretty  girls  they 
promenade,  and  the  gentlemen  they  run  after  them,  and  (donner 
and  doria!  where's  my  hat  and  cane?) — and  Meister  Karl  has 
been  singing  all  the  morning  on  paper  the  same  old  song  which, 
with  variations,  was  sung  by  the  first  poet  ages  before  the  flood, 
and  which  will  be  sung  and  printed  for  ages  to  come,  world  with 
out  end.  Adieu,  reader :  long  before  you  have  finished  the  fol 
lowing  ballad,  Meister  Karl  will  be  half  a  mile  down  the  street, 
talking  even  greater  nonsense  than  he  has  scribbled.  "It's 
nater,  sir — it's  nater!" 

Uprose  the  wild  old  winter  king 
And  shook  his  beard  of  snow; 
I  hear  the  first  young  harebell  ring, 
'Tis  time  for  me  to  go  ! 

Northward  o'er  the  icy  rocks, 

Northward  o'er  the  sea, 
My  daughter  comes  with  sunny  locks : 
This  land's  too  warm  for  me. 

And  softly  came  the  fair  young  queen, 

O'er  mountain,  dale,  and  dell ; 
And  where  her  golden  light  was  seen 
An  emerald  shadow  fell. 

The  good  wife  oped  the  window  wide, 
The  good  man  spanned  the  plough; 
'Tis  time  to  run,  'tis  time  to  ride ! 
For  Spring  is  with  us  now  ! 

And  the  city  maiden  smiled  that  day, 

In  all  her  loveliness; 
I  must  pack  my  furs  and  things  away, 

And  think  of  a  new  spring  dress. 


164  SKETCH-BOOK    OF    ME,    MEISTER    KARL. 

A  new  chapeau — a  feather  fine  ! 

Light  gloves  and  ribbons  gay — 
Oh  winter  wild  ! — oh  maiden  mine  ! 

Thus  runs  the  world  away  ! 


CHAPTER   THE   TWENTY-SECOND. 

OF   ROME   AND   DIVERS    THINGS   THEREIN   AND   THEREOUT. 

Salve,  o  Roma !  o  di  portent! 

Veneranda  sepoltura 

La  nequizia  de  viventi 

Oscurato  ha  il  tuo  splendor: 

Ma  ti  resta  la  sventura 

Ma  ti  resta  il  tuo  dolor. — P.  A.  FIORENTINO. 

WE  entered  Rome — not  as  conquerors  in  the  classic  days,  as 
barbarians  in  the  Dark  Ages,  or  as  pilgrims  of  the  Mediaeval 
time  were  wont  to  do,  but  simply  as  travellers  of  the  nineteenth 
century — a  character  which  to  a  certain  degree  combines  all  of 
these.  But  we  entered  it  under  pleasant  circumstances,  and  at 
a  pleasant  time  too,  just  at  the  quiet  thought-hour,  when  the 
silver  moonlight,  mingling  with  the  crimson  and  purple  of  the 
fast-fading  "evening  Aurora/'  showed  us  dim  in  the  distance 
the  high  spires  and  roofs  of  the  glorious  city.  Far  away  over 
the  desolate  Campagna  extended  long  lines  of  ancient  aqueducts, 
seeming,  in  the  uncertain  evening  haze,  like  vast  rows  of  palm- 
trees  with  interlacing  tops.  And  as  we  came  nearer,  a  thousand 
objects  awakened  a  thousand  associations.  There  was  not  a 
building,  not  a  rain,  which  did  not  recall  our  early  studies,  our 
early  hopes,  and  our  early  longings  to  visit  this  city  of  the  past. 

Ah,  little  thought  I,  when  in  school  I  sat 
Glowing  with  Roman  story,  I  should  live 
To  tread  the  Appian. 

That  melancholy  beauty,  which  after  a  short  residence  in  the 
Eternal  City  seems  to  attach  itself  to  all  objects  therewith  con 
nected,  is  presaged  for  miles  before  approaching  its  gates,  in  the 
broad  and  silent  Campagna.  Every  one  who  has  read  or  dreamed 
of  Rome,  must  have  formed  an  idea — and  probably  a  correct  one 


OF   ROME.  165 

— of  the  general  appearance  of  these  vast  plains,  which  present 
so  little  to  the  eye  and  so  much  to  the  imagination.  The  scat 
tered  huts  or  inns,  the  occasional  flocks  and  wild-looking  shep 
herds,  or  the  young  artists  seeking  for  studies,  have  become  of 
late  years  familiar  to  every  frequenter  of  national  galleries  or 
turner  over  of  portfolios  and  annuals. 

"Yes,"  quoth  the  Wolf.  "Every  thing  is,  or  will  be,  ro 
mantic  in  time  to  somebody.  Perhaps  the  very  cabman  of  the 
nineteenth  century  will  loom  out  as  terribly  to  the  romance-writer 
of  the  twenty-fifth  as  do  Roland  and  Palmerin  to  us.  And  I 
dare  say  that,  could  the  novelist  James  of  that  future  day  get  a 
glimpse  of  this  clumsy  old  diligence  as  it  rolls  onward  in  the 
sunset  light  toward  Rome,  and  see  yon  solitary  horseman  who 
pursues  that  pig,  the  beginning  of  a  fashionable  romance  would 
leap  spontaneously  to  his  heart,  rise  and  expand  in  copious  chap 
ters  in  his  brain,  and  at  the  first  convenient  opportunity  find 
vent  in  volumes  from  his  fluent  pen." 

But,  alas !  on  entering  Rome  all  poetic  and  romantic  reflection 
is  speedily  converted  from  grave  to  gay — if  indeed  that  abomina 
tion  of  bitterness,  the  search  of  our  baggage  by  the  douaniers, 
can  be  in  any  manner  enrolled  under  the  head  of  gayety.  Lively 
enough  is  it  for  some,  if  not  severe. 

And  now  may  all  execrations  invented  and  non-invented,  fall 
to  the  share  of  the  trunk-rifling  and  pocket-picking  rascal  who 
first  invented  this  system  of  search — this  system  which  by  bri 
bery  spares  the  guilty  and  grieves  the  innocent.  May  the  ex 
communication  of  Ernulphus  light  on  him,  and  let  him  be  Ana 
thema,  Maranathema,  Baranathema,  Maranatha ! !  May  all  the 
hobgoblins  of  the  black  valley  of  Mistorak  fly  away  with  the 
house  "in  which  was  married  the  father  of  the  bishop,  who  con 
secrated  the  priest,  who  married  the  mother  of  the  man,  who 
manufactured  the  axe  which  cut  the  wood,  from  which  was  made 
the  handle  of  the  spade  with  which  they  dug  up  the  earth  to 
plant  the  genealogical  tree  of  him  and  of  all  like  him."  In 
secula  sceculorum.  Finis! 

This  for  the  benefit  of  those  requiring  it — and  their  name  is 
Legion.  For  on  the  whole,  an  old  stager  on  the  Grande  Route 
has  but  little  to  fear  from  them.  Parbleul  They  recognise 
him  free-masonically — tip  the  wink — raise  the  eyebrows — screw 
up  the  mouth — shrug !— little  do  they  ever  extract  from  his 


166  SKETCH-BOOK    OF    ME,    MEISTER    KARL. 

doubly-thumped  and  trebly-batterfanged  old  sole-leather  malle. 
It  may  be  redolent  of  the  best  Havanas,  or  have  an  invoice  of 
Geneva  watches,  Brussels  laces,  and  Paris  kids  pasted  on  the  out 
side  as  a  table  of  contents — no  matter.  Contraband! — fudge! 
The  blessing  of  the  priest  converts  flesh  into  fish;  the  skill  of  the 
restaurateur  changes  pet  pussies  into  favourite  dishes ;  the  learn 
ing  of  the  cosmetic-chemist  metamorphoses  age  into  youth;  the 
wisdom  of  Solomon  Isaacs  transmogrifies  old  garments  into  new; 
the  tact  of  the  lawyer  makes  the  worse  appear  the  better  cause ; 
and  the  magic  spell  of  the  ready — otherwise  known  as  money, 
cash,  tin,  stuff,  rhino,  root-of-all-evil,  blunt,  wherewithal,  rowdy, 
funds,  stumpy,  pecuniary,  dibs,  hard,  browns,  heavy,  mopusses, 
slugs,  shiners,  lucre,  or  "the  filthy,"  dust,  gelt,  chips,  lumps, 
chinkers,  mint-drops,  pewter,  brass,  horsenails,  rocks,  brads, 
spondulix,  needful,  dough,  spoons,  buttons,  dimes,  or  the  infal 
lible — will  convert  every  article  and  item  in  that  old  sole-leather 
into  "duty  free."  ' 

So  that  when  the  government  applied  to  Wolf  for  his  keys,  he 
drew  them  out  in  such  haste  that  several  coins  were  removed 
with  them,  and  the  whole  assortment  transferred  to  the  palm  of 
the  douanier,  who  curious-coincidentally,  in  the  confusion,  took 
no  heed  of  the  mistake,  and  the  following  friendly  dialogue  ensued : 

Douanier.   "Any  thing  contraband ?" 

Wolf.  "  What  an  absurd  notion !" 

Douanier.   "Quite  ridiculous— isn't  it?" 

Wolf.  "Perfectly  ridiculous." 

Douanier.   "Any  tobacco?" 

Wolf,  (filling  his  pipe.)  "Not  a  fraction." 

Douanier ',  (opens  trunks  and  discovers  two  boxes  of  Havanas 
and  some  books.)  "No  cigars,  I  presume?" 

Wolf.  "Of  course  not.  Ahem! — you  may  take  half  a  dozen 
out  of  that  open  box — they're  good." 

Douanier,  (grins  and  pockets  them.)  "These  books  are  all 
guide-books — ain't  they?" 

Wolf.  "Every  one  of  'em." 

Douanier,  (doubtfully.)  "All  for  Kome?" 

Wolf.  "  All  roads,  my  friend,  lead  to  Rome." 

Douanier,  (grinning.)  "No  Bibles,  I  suppose?  They're  pro 
hibited." 

Wolf.  "Haven't  seen  one  these  five  years." 


OF   ROME.  1G7 

Then  the  douanicr  relocked  the  trunk  and  restored  the  keys, 
having  first  dexterously,  and,  as  he  thought,  unseen  by  Wolf, 
stolen  a  book  and  a  hair-brush,  which  he  at  once  hid  under  a 
table.  But  the  eyes  of  Short  were  upon  him,  and  he  gravely  re 
placed  the  missing  articles  in  a  manner  which  might  have  in 
duced  a  bystander  to  suppose  that  this  was  a  regular  part  of  the 
ceremony. 

The  Wolf  had  been  in  his  time  through  many  searches,  and 
when  younger  had  "  suffered  some."  He  had  heard  pretty  young 
English  ladies  and  New  York  belles  call  a  searcher,  "une  grand 
villain  et  wretch  et  rascal,"  for  shaking  out  their  linen  to  the 
delighted  gaze  of  a  grinning  multitude.  He  had  seen  a  Russian, 
with  all  the  impudence  of  the  devil,  tell  a  douanier  of  his  own 
country  that  a  number  of  transparent  pills  which  rolled  out  of  his 
trunk  over  the  floor  were  sugar-plums,  and  induced  him  to  taste 
one.  And  he  had  laughed  at  Meister  Karl,  when  the  searchers 
of  the  Russian  frontier  took  from  the  latter  every  fragment  of 
newspaper,  from  the  size  of  a  sixpence  upward,  which  they  could 
find  in  his  baggage,  and  all  because  two  lead-pencils  had  been 
inadvertently  wrapped  in  a  bit  of  that  highly  incendiary  and 
red-republican  publication,  Die  Allgemeine  Zcitung.  He  had, 
when  wandering  in  vacations  from  divers  universities,  even  set 
a  French  douanier  to  laughing,  and  ended  the  search  by  asking 
him,  "Where  the  devil  he  supposed  a  travelling  student  could 
raise  the  capital  to  deal  in  contraband?" — albeit  the  official  had 
already  nosed  out  a  meerschaum,  and  laying  his  finger  on  the  tip, 
impressively  declared  his  conviction  that  where  the  tail  of  the 
fox  was,  the  rest  couldn't  be  far  off. 

And  he  had  "  bluffed"  a  German  searcher  who  asked  if  he  had 
any  tobacco,  by  replying — "  No,  but  I  hope  you  have  ?"  But  I 
doubt  if  he  had  ever  found  the  place  through  which  he  had  not 
run  a  collection  of  divers  little  contraband  conveniences,  with  the 
assistance  of  palaver,  politeness,  and  a  little  change. 

The  search  concluded,  then  came  that  second  care,  to  procure 
lodgings.  From  hotel  to  hotel  we  wandered,  until  we  chanced 
upon  a  party  of  good  fellows  of  different  nations  whom  Wolf 
knew,  (he  knew  everybody,)  who  led  us  to  the  caravansary  where 
they  dwelt.  But  we  proposed  to  remain  in  Rome  for  a  long  time, 
and  accordingly  sought  for  a  suite  of  rooms  in  a  more  retired 
situation.  The  landlord  of  the  hotel,  of  course,  assured  us  that 

15 


168  SKETCH-BOOK   OF    ME,    MEISTER    KARL. 

this  would  be  impossible,  that  the  town  was  full  offorcstieri — of 
strangers — awaiting  the  Carnival,  and  that  lodgings  were  worth, 
if  not  their  weight,  at  least  their  content  in  silver.  But  even  in 
Juvenal's  time  any  thing  could  be  obtained  in  Rome  for  money. 
"Omui  Romse,  cum  pretio."  So  we  soon  obtained  right  pleasant 
rooms.  If  the  reader  cares  to  know,  I  can  tell  him  that  they  were 
in  the  Via  Ripctta,  overlooking  in  part  the  yellow  Tiber,  and 
not  far  from  the  Porto  Ripctta  and  the  Palazzo  Borghese. 

Our  new  landlord  was  a  shrewd,  intelligent  individual — a  man 
of  some  note  in  the  annals  of  the  Roman  police,  and  who  dis 
tinguished  himself  by  kindness  and  attention  toward  us,  his 
boarders.  GIUSEPPE  !  I  have  seen  thy  name  sadly  berated  in 
liberal  Italian  prints,  and  have  heard  thee  cursed  even  in  New 
York  by  the  carbonari  of  Young  Italy,  but  I  found  no  just  cause 
for  it  in  thy  rooms  or  in  the  neat  breakfasts  which  thy  kind- 
hearted  lady  served  up  to  us.  And  I  could  tell  one  or  two 
good  stories  of  thee,  GIUSEPPE,  if  I  so  listed;  but,  as  it  occurs  to 
me,  on  second  thought,  that  thou  couldst  probably  tell  one  or 
two  in  return,  we'll  even  cry  quits  and  draw  the  game ! 

But  I  will  give  the  reader,  in  place  thereof,  Wolf's  bill  at 
the  hotel  which  we  quitted.  The  Wolf  was  a  confirmed  and 
shameless  o\A.rat}  as  French  hotel-keepers  call  those  who  regard 
a  hotel  simply  as  a  place  to  breakfast  and  sleep  in,  (if  indeed 
they  do  that.)  He  liked  to  have  a  den  to  receive  cards  in,  but 

preferred  living  "about  town  in  spots,"  as  young  C called 

it.     But  the  bill : 

HOTEL  D'ALLEMAGNE. 

'•     A  Rome. 
Tenu  par. 
FRANZ  ROESLER,  RUE  fiosDorrr,  No.  88. 

SIG.  WOLFO  SHORTO,  D.D.,  Appartement  No. . 

Rome,  le  5  Fevrier  18 — . 

Fev.  3. 


Fcv.  4. 


ScudL  Baiocchi. 

1  Flacon  d'Orvieto  

20 

1  The  6  beurre  

30 

1  Flacon  d'Orvieto  

20 

1  Panier  du  Bois  

80 

1  Flacon  d'Orvieto  

20 

1  Flacon  d'Orvieto  

20 

2  Dejeuners  

60 

2  Flacons  d'Orvieto  

40 

2  Diners  

1         20 

1  Flacon  d'Orvieto  

,  20 

OF   ROME.  169 

Scudi.   Baiocchi. 

Fcv.  4.     2  Bougies 40 

"         1  Flacon  d'Orvieto 20 

Fev.  5.     2  Flacons  d'Orvieto 40 

"         2  Dejeuners ]         00 

"         1  Flacon  d'Orvieto 20 

"             Logeinent  2  jours 3         00 

(Et  flacon  d'Orvieto) 20 

En  comptant 4         60 

1  Flacon  d'Orvieto 20 

Service  do  la  Maison 1         20 

1  Flacon  d'Orvieto 20 

1  Potage  et  poulet,  et 50 

1  Flacon  d'Orvieto ...  20 

16        60 
Paye,  A.  ALLOBELLI,  SGO. 

From  which  it  simply  appears  that  the  Wolf  not  only  paid  his 
bills,  (a  very  commendable  thing,)  but  had  acquired  a  somewhat 
remarkable  relish  for  the  Roman  wine,  Orvieto,  which  is  a  very 
good  tipple  when  not  sugar-of-leaded  j  resembling  greatly  the  old- 
fashioned  drink  of  perry,  or  pear-cider. 

And  now,  reader,  where  shall  I  lead  you,  "  'mid  deathless  lairs 
in  solemn  Rome  ?"  Often  have  I  thought,  during  the  previous 
chapters — yea  even  from  the  beginning — of  the  fine  times  you 
and  I  would  have  together  if  I  could  once  persuade  you  so  far. 
For  I  was  thinking  of  you  all  the  while,  though  you  never  knew 
it !  And  now  that  we're  here,  I  hardly  know  where  to  turn ! 
Ruins  ? — alack,  other  tourists  have  ruined  or  ruinized  Rome  so 
thoroughly,  that  he  who  can  start  up  a  new  idea  on  that  subject 
is  the  master  of  Meister  Karl.  Patience,  patience — let  us  sit 
down  awhile  and  smoke  ! 

From  this  window  we  can  see  far  in  the  distance  the  Tiber, 
and  beyond  it  the  prison-castle  of  St.  Angelo.  There  CAGLIOS- 
TRO  was  once  confined,  and  before  and  after  him  many  a  better 
man  than  he.  And  hold  !  now  that  I  think  of  it,  I  believe  that 
I  can  recall  an  old  legend  about  that  same  castle.  Let  me  see ! 
ah,  yes,  it  is  recorded  in  the  Exempla  Vitiorum  et  Virtutum  of 
that  most  credulous  but  excellent  writer  JANUS  NICIUS  ERY- 
THRJEUS,  and  for  the  truth  of  which  legend  he  vouches,  it  having 
been  narrated  to  him  by  his  friend  P.  Jo.  Franciscus  Carettonius, 
a  most  excellent  and  trustworthy  Jesuit.  Let  me  seek  for  the 
book ;  ah  !  here  it  is,  now  listen  ! — 


170  SKETCH-BOOK    OF    ME,    METSTER    KARL. 

"  In  the  year  1620,  there  dwelt  in  Rome  a  certain  gentleman 
fearfully  given  to  all  manner  of  hard-living  and  debauchery. 
The  one  redeeming  trait  in  his  character  was  an  extreme  reve 
rence  for  the  dead,  and  the  incredible  zeal  which  he  constantly 
manifested  for  the  welfare  of  their  souls.  Whence  it  came  that 
he  made  for  himself  many  friends  among  the  departed,  as  appears 
in  the  following  instance  : 

"  This  gentleman,  though  loved  by  the  Dead,  had  yet  many 
bitter  enemies  among  the  living,  who  constantly  strove,  both  by 
night  and  by  day,  to  take  his  life,  so  that  he  ran  a  great  risk  in 
venturing  forth.  But  being  naturally  a  bold  man,  he  put  but 
little  restraint  on  himself.  And  one  night,  having  crossed  the 
Tiber,  he  saw  on  the  great  oak  which  formerly  stood  not  far  from 
the  Castle  of  San  Angelo,  the  limbs  of  a  criminal  who  had  that 
day  been  drawn  and  quartered,  swinging  in  the  wind.  And  as 
he  gazed,  he  beheld,  to  his  great  horror,  these  limbs  draw  to 
gether,  unite  again  into  a  whole  body,  and,  leaping  to  the  ground, 
approach  him.  Then  the  dead  man,  seizing  his  horse  by  the 
bridle,  bade  him  dismount  and  await  his  return,  which  he  did  : 
and  the  corpse  assuming  a  form  like  unto  his  own,  rode  onward. 
Nor  had  he  gone  above  sixty  paces  from  where  the  gentleman 
stood,  ere  four  masked  bravoes,  rushing  upon  him,  strove  with 
many  blows  and  stabs  to  assassinate  this  their  supposed  enemy, 
casting  him  from  his  horse  and  then  taking  to  flight.  After 
which,  the  twice-slain,  returning  to  the  gentleman,  said,  i  These 
thine  enemies  would  surely  have  killed  thee,  had  not  I,  by  the 
command  of  God,  taken  thy  place.  The  which  was  a  reward  for 
the  pious  regard  which  thou  hast  ever  manifested  toward  the 
dead.  Continue,  therefore,  in  these  good  thoughts,  and  in  future 
lead  a  better  and  purer  life  !'  Which  having  said,  the  dead 
man  again  ascended  the  oak-tree,  and,  dividing  into  four  parts, 
hung  as  before. 

"  This  remarkable  adventure  had  upon  the  gentleman  such  an 
effect,  that  he,  in  compliance  with  the  exhortation  of  the  dead 
man,  ever  after  in  all  things  led  a  godly  and  righteous  life.  And 
may  the  same  ever  be  our  lot  and  example  !  Amen." 

If  we  now  look,  reader,  from  our  front  window,  we  shall  see  a 
fountain  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  street,  and  which  is  visited 
ever  and  anon  by  some  girl  with  a  pitcher,  or  by  a  thirsty  raga 
muffin.  Fountains  form  objects  of  no  ordinary  attraction  in  Eu- 


'  \.  OF    ROME.  171 

rope;  and  many,  from  their  antiquity,  beauty,  or  singularity, 
have  been  themes  of  special  comment  with  the  artist  or  anti 
quary.  There  is  something  to  me  attractive  in  the  very  nature 
of  a  fountain — it  runs  on  so  quietly  and  gently,  and  is  withal  so 
useful.  What  a  pleasant  little  inscription  is  that  which  Ramler 
once  wrote  for  one  ! — 

Immer  rinnet  diese  Quelle, 
Niemals  plaudert  ihre  Welle 
Komm,  Wandrer,  hier  zu  ruhn  ! 
Koram,  lern  an  dieser  Quelle 
Stillschweigend  Gutes  thun. 

And  which  is  thus  translated  by  MRS.  FOLLEN — 

Lo  !  this  fount  is  flowing  ever ; 
But  the  fountain  prattles  never  ! 
Traveller !  at  this  fountain  stay  : 
Learn  of  it  with  pure  endeavour 
Good  to  do  and  nothing  say. 

The  fountains  of  Rome  have  been  famed  for  centuries,  and 
there  is  no  city  which  contains  so  many.  Some  are  humble  and 
droll,  such  as  the  one  farther  along  the  Via  Ripetta,  which  re 
presents  a  funny-looking  fellow  holding  a  barrel,  from  the  bung 
of  which  rushes  a  continual  stream.  You  would  suppose  that  it 
was  wine,  instead  of  Adam's  ale,  which  runs  out  so  freely.  And 
there,  too,  in  Rome  is  the  splendid  fountain  of  Trevi,  which 
rushes  downward  like  a  hurrying  sea.  In  all  ages  popular  super 
stition  has  been  prone  to  regard  fountains  as  things  of  life;  and 
here  in  Erythrseus  is  a  legend  of  this  nature,  which  may  refer, 
for  aught  I  know,  to  one  of  the  very  fountains  we  have  seen  this 
morning.  To  me  the  story  has  an  altogether  strange  air,  which 
smacks  quite  as  much  of  Northern  mysticism  as  of  Classic 
mythology : 

"There  is,  even  at  the  present  day,  a  fountain  in  Rome,  which 
is  celebrated  for  the  freshness  and  beauty  of  its  waters.  And  it 
happened  on  a  time  when  many  young  maidens  were  there  as 
sembled,  busily  engaged  in  washing,  that  one  among  them  missed 
a  golden  bracelet  which  she  greatly  prized.  And  suspecting  that 
one  of  her  companions  had  stolen  it,  she  insisted  that  all  should 
submit  to  be  searched ;  which  they,  conscious  of  their  innocence, 
cheerfully  did.  But  the  bracelet  not  being  found,  the  young 
girl,  weeping  bitterly,  invoked  a  heavy  curse  'upon  the  one  who 

15* 


172  SKETCH-BOOK    OF    ME,    METSTER    KARL. 

kept  it.'  And  no  sooner  had  these  words  passed  her  lips,  ere  the 
fountain,  which  had  hitherto  been  so  pure  and  sparkling,  ran 
thick  and  foul  with  black  mud,  so  that  no  further  use  could  be 
made  of  its  water.  And,  some  days  afterward,  a  search  being 
instituted  to  ascertain  the  cause  of  this  unprecedented  pollution, 
her  bracelet  was  found  at  its  bottom  and  restored  to  the  owner. 
This  being  done,  the  fountain  at  once  recovered  its  pristine  pu 
rity,  which  it  still  retains."  (Conttnus  pristinus  fonti  nitor  ac- 
cessit.) 

And  now,  reader,  put  on  your  hat  and  let's  go  out.  I  shall 
give  you  no  descriptions  of  Home ;  they  are  all  chronicled  in  lay 
and  song,  in  picture  and  poem,  in  sketch-book  and  guide.  Let 
us  rather  smoke  our  cigars,  sprawling  out  on  ruins  in  the  sun 
shine,  or  linger  in  thought  among  broken  walls  and  quiet  nooks, 
dreaming  over  the  past. 

Here  we  are  in  the  Colisosum,  and  enjoying  a  beautiful  day, 
such  as  is  seen  and  felt  only  in  Italy.  A  poor  religieuse  kneels 
near  us,  performing  the  circuit  of  the  stations,  and  passengers, 
as  they  go  by,  stop  and  kiss  the  holy  cross  in  the  centre.  Every 
kiss — so  reads  its  inscription — frees  a  soul  from  one  hundred 
days  of  purgatory.  How  still  and  calm  it  is!  with  no  sound 
heard  save  the  chirping  of  birds  as  they  flutter  about  among  the 
moss-covered  piles,  or,  it  may  be,  the  distant  hum  of  the  city. 
The  slanting  sun-rays  steal  in,  broad  and  wide,  through  mossy 
crevices,  and  wind  like  golden  serpents  over  the  ruined  arches. 
And  now  the  nameless  enchantment  of  the  place  is  strong  upon 
me.  It  seems  as  if  at  some  time  far  back  in  the  past — it  may 
have  been  countless  ages  ago — I  had  been  here  before  !  Does 
the  soul,  indeed,  as  the  Platonist  thought,  sometimes  recall  the 
prophetic  feeling  with  which  it  once,  far  back  in  the  dawn  of 
time,  read  its  whole  future? 

Dream  away  the  days  where  I  will — in  the  Borghese  Gardens, 
by  the  pyramid  of  Caius  Cestus,  or  amid  the  ruins  of  Hadrian's 
villa,  there  still  comes  over  me  a  sweet,  sad  feeling,  unlike  that 
inspired  by  any  other  city.  In  Rome  I  am  no  longer  in  the 
present — my  whole  life  becomes  a  reflex  of  the  dim  and  mighty 
Past. 

Such  is  Rome  by  day — but  it  may  be  that  we  have  the  evening 
before  us.  Let  us  wrap  our  cloaks  about  us  and  sally  forth. 

I  have  somewhere  read  of  one  who  believed  that  he  had  two 


OF   ROME.  173 

lives,  one  of  which  passed  in  the  world,  and  the  other  in  the 
Dream-Land  of  Sleep.  And  so  it  is  with  all  beautiful  night 
landscapes,  which,  under  the  magic  colouring  of  moonlight 
and  star-ray,  wear  quite  another  aspect  from  that  which  they 
present  in  the  reality  of  day.  Truly,  he  who  has  seen  Rome 
only  during  the  world's  busy  hours,  has  seen  but  half  of  its 
beauty. 

Let  him  who  would  fully  behold  the  Glorious  City,  walk  up 
the  Via  Condotti  and  ascend  the  stairs.  These  stairs,  by-the- 
way,  always  reminded  me  of  that  flight  which  we  see  depicted 
in  the  old  edition  of  the  Pilgrim's  Progress  as  ascending  to  the 
Blessed  City.  Like  them,  they  spread  invitingly  upward, 
giving  a  promise  of  new  visions  of  romance  and  beauty — a  pro 
mise  which  is  well  fulfilled.  Look  forth  from  their  summit 
upon  the  view  which  lies  around  half  visible  in  the  darkness, 
half-hidden  in  the  misty  moonlight.  The  quaint  Italian  houses 
with  their  broad-tiled  roofs,  the  balconies,  gardens,  streets,  and 
distant  churches,  seem  like  the  views  in  a  panorama.  It  is 
no  longer  the  Rome  of  the  Caesars  which  we  behold,  but  the 
Rome  of  the  Middle  Ages — the  Rome  of  Rienzi  and  of  the 
Borgia. 

Or  else  stroll  through  the  streets,  lighted  less  by  the  lamps 
which  twinkle  here  tmd  there  before  the  images  of  the  Virgin 
than  by  the  glowing  moonlight.  The  business  of  the  day  is 
over,  but  the  street  yet  echoes  with  the  ring  of  many  voices,  and 
at  every  corner  is  heard  the  ring  of  the  guitar  and  little  serenades, 
such  as  this : 

Che  piacere  mai  la  notto,  How  sweet  by  night  to  stray, 

Passegiare  a  ciel  sereno  When  skies  are  blue  and  fair, 

Come  e  grato,  quanto  ameno  Beneath  the  moon's  bright  ray! 

Delia  Luna  lo  splendor.  How  soft  the  summer  air ! 

Donzellette,  mia  Carina  Thou  dearest  maid — arise  ! 

Deh  !  venite  ed  ascoltate  And  listen  while  we  rove  ! 

Ed  il  sonno  discacciate  Drive  slumber  from  thine  eyes, 

Che  parlar  vi  vuo  d'amor !  For  I  will  sing  of  love  ! 

And  now,  reader,  stop  with  me  here  by  the  pillars  of  this  old 
palace  in  the  deep  moon-shadow,  and  watch  the  passers-by. 
Here  is  no  sound  save  the  rustling  and  splashing  of  yonder 
diamond-dropping  fountain,  which,  by  day  and  night,  ever  run 
neth  merrily  on  with — 


174 


MEISTER    KARL. 


A  noise  like  of  a  hidden  brook, 

In  the  leafy  month  of  June  ; 
That  to  the  sleepy  woods  all  night 

Singeth  a  quiet  tune. 

Who  is  the  first  passer-by  ?  An  Englishman,  probably  on  his 
way  to  the  Colisaeum,  as  his  guide-book  and  the  love  of  novelty 
direct.  There  is  no  mistaking  him;  he  is  decidedly  one  of  "the 
ubiquitous/7  That  earnest,  manly  step,  indicative  of  "old  Teu 
tonic  pluck,"  the  tweed  shooting-coat,  rather  scrimpily  cut,  the 
earnest  and  not  incurious  glance  which  he  at  times  bends  on 
some  object,  the  squared-off  pantaloons,  the  stove-pipe  hat,  the 
shoulder-of-mutton  whiskers,  the  broad  shoulders,  and  the  stand 
ing  collar,  all  indicate  his  nation. 

Here  conies  a  Roman  of  the  lower  order.  Mark  that  face  and 
eye — it  is  one  which  you  will  often  see  in  Italy.  Lazzaroni-like 
and  brigand-like  together,  it  is  not  devoid  of  an  expression 
which  reminds  one  of  gentle  blood.  He  wears  an  overcoat,  not 
on  his  back,  however,  but  over  his  breast,  with  the  sleeves  hang 
ing  down  behind ;  for  he  dreads  a  cold  on  the  lungs  more  than 
a  stab  between  the  shoulders.  In  Rome,  the  consumption  is 
more  feared  than  the  pest,  and  is  believed  to  be  equally  conta 
gious.  Let  it  be  known  that  a  lodger  has  the  sad  disease,  and 
they  will  first  turn  .him  out  to  die  in  the -street,  and  then  burn 
the  bed  in  which  he  has  slept. 

And  now  a  Roman  girl — alone.  But  what  of  that?  No 
suspicion  attaches  itself  to  a  woman  here  unless  she  be  accom 
panied.  What  a  beautiful  dress  the  Roman  peasantry  wear,  and 
what  an  indescribably  romantic  effect  docs  that  square  handker 
chief  coiffure  present!  And  what  a  walk!  What  a  majestic 
gait !  There  is  no  place  in  the  world  where  women  walk  so 
gracefully  as  in  Rome.  Many  theories  have  been  proposed  to 
account  for  this  gracefulness  of  motion.  One  is,  that  it  is  owing 
to  their  habit  of  carrying  heavy  weights,  such  as  jars  of  water, 
on  the  head — an  idea  sufficiently  disproved  by  the  fact  that  the 
highborn  ladies  of  the  land,  who  never  carry  any  thing,  are  quite 
as  graceful. 

But  who,  in  the  name  of  Bacchus  and  Raphael,  are  these  two 
romantic-looking  gentlemen  arrayed  in  velvet  paletots  or  sleeved 
cloaks,  with  an  innumerable  array  of  little  buttons  bivouacked  in 
two  rows  from  the  beard  to  the  knees  ?  One  sports  the  sombrero 


OF    ROME.  175 

of  Reubens,  another  the  barber's-basin  hat  of  Raphael.  Long 
hair !  long  moustaches !  A  couple  of  artists,  slightly  inspired 
with  something  a  little  stronger  than  Orvieto,  on  their  way 
homeward  from  the  Cafe,  dd  Greco — the  one  a  German,  the 
other  an  Anglo-Saxon,  to  judge  from  the  songs  which  they 
troll,  regardless  of  tune,  time,  the  world,  and  of  each  other. 
"  Sweet  sounds  to  fly  about  the  streets  of  Home,"  those  !  I  sus 
pect  that  Anglo-Saxon  baritone,  from  his  hook-handled,  hickory 
cane,  and  from  the  indomitable  independence  of  his  gait,  to 
be  an  American.  Home  with  you,  my  young  friends !  Pleasant 
be  your  dreams  of  high  art  in  general,  and  of  pretty  young 
models  in  particular ! 

Well,  friend  reader,  shall  we  wend  our  way  sleepward  ?  Here 
we  are  now  by  the  Porta  Ripetta.  Let  us  gaze  an  instant  at  the 
tall  houses,  with  their  strange  balconies  and  light-flashing  win 
dows  reflected  in  the  muddy  Tiber.  "Why  did  Horace  express 
astonishment  that  his  friend  Sybaris  was  afraid  to  bathe  in  its 
foul  waters  ? 

Cur  timet  flavum  Tiberim  tangere  ? 

Why  docs  he  fear  to  touch  the  yellow  Tiber  ? 

I  can  well  imagine  that  any  gentleman  of  cleanly  habits  would 
think  twice  ere  attempting  such  an  exploit. 

The  city  has  sunk  to  rest.  Far,  far  away,  in  the  direction  of 
St.  Peter's,  I  hear  the  crow  of  a  cock.  'Tis  the  bird  of  warning 
as  well  as  dawning,  and  summons  us  now,  not  to  rise,  but  to 
repose.  Reader — good  night ! 


176  SKETCH-LOOK    OF    ME,    MEISTER   KARL. 


CHAPTER  THE   TWENTY-THIRD. 

THE    CARNIVAL   AT   ROME. 
(AS    IT    WAS    ACTED    IN    THE    YEAR    1847.) 

LE  Carnival  qui  approchait  hii  en  fournait  1'occasion,  car  c'est  uno  fpoque 
qui  inoritro  le  peuple  de  Rome  tel  qu'il  est. 

VIE  BE  LA  PRINCESSE  BORGHKSE. 

This  feast  is  term'd  the  Carnival ;  which,  being 

Interpreted,  implies — "Farewell  to  flesh;" 

When  there  is  fiddling,  singing,  drinking,  masking. 

BYROX. 

"Ho\V  shall  I  ever  describe  thee,  thou  glorious  Carnival? 
How  can  I  ever  hope  to  convey  even  the  shadow  of  an  idea  of 
thy  exquisite  folly,  thy  delicious  madness  ?  As  well  might  the 
opium-eater  hope  to  paint  his  fairy-land  visions,  or  a  German 
Gcister  Schcr  to  describe  the  brilliant  phantasma  of  the  seventh 
sphere." 

"  There  is  one  month  in  the  year,"  say  the  sober-minded 
Turks,  "  during  which  Christians  are  insane."  And,  truly,  he 
who  does  not  enter  into  the  spirit  of  the  Carnival,  may  well 
deem  himself  in  a  world  of  lunatics.  All  the  eccentricity,  all 
the  grotesqueness,  all  the  wit,  folly,  singularity,  and  oddity 
which  can  be  devised  by  a  people  who  are  eccentric  and  ro 
mantic  in  their  soberest  moments,  are  then  brought  into  play. 

There  is  a  broad  and  beautiful  street  in  Rome  called  the 
CORSO,  any  part  of  which  presents  views  which  might  serve 
for  scenes  in  the  theatres.  From  every  window  in  this  street, 
curtains  of  crimson  and  gold,  or  of  blue  and  silver,  are  hung ; 
and  the  balconies  which  project  from  every  house  are  similarly 
adorned.  These  are  occupied  almost  exclusively  by  beautiful 
women,  in  every  variety  of  costume  which  history  can  suggest, 
caprice  invent,  or  imagination  devise.  Joan  of  Arc,  from  one 
window,  makes  war  on  you  with  sugar-plums ;  Pulciuella  pelts 


THE    CARNIVAL    AT    ROME.  177 

you  with  peas,  while  a  chance  Contadina  half  kills  you  with 
kisses  and  comfits.  Anon,  a  beautiful  Odalisque  tosses  you  a 
flower,  while,  from  an  opposing  balcony,  a  Louis  Quatorze  beauty 
discharges  an  egg  full  on  your  devoted  coat.  With  heartfelt 
agony  you  watch  it  as  it  breaks,  and  lo !  it  is  filled  with  cologne 
water !  With  a  smile  on  your  lips  and  rage  in  your  heart,  you 
dash  on  only  to  encounter  new  showers  of  comfits  and  new 
storms  of  bouquets. 

Such  is  the  main  business  of  the  Carnival — to  ride  through 
the  Corso  in  a  carriage,  or  to  stand  in  a  balcony,  exchanging 
volleys  of  flowers  and  sugar-plums  with  the  passers-by,  and  to 
crowd  at  night  into  a  masked  ball  or  the  opera.  But  the 
thousand-and-one  little  incidents  which  serve  to  interest  and 
amuse,  while  you  hardly  perceive  them — the  flirtations  of  a 
minute — the  coquetries  of  a  second — all  these,  unimportant  by 
themselves,  taken  together,  serve  admirably  to  dispel  the  least 
trace  of  ennui,  and  throw  an  air  of  romance  over  the  whole 
scene. 

The  missiles  generally  employed  during  the  Carnival  are  of 
three  sorts,  namely — "The  Indifferent/'  "The  Compliment 
ary,"  "  The  Offensive."  Among  the  indifferent,  I  class  the 
plaster  sugar-plums.  These  are  made  either  of  small  balls  of 
clay,  or  peas,  coated  over  with  a  mixture  of  lime  and  water; 
and,  when  thrown  with  energy  against  any  dark  object,  such  as 
a  coat  or  hat,  leave  a  white  mark.  When  the  face  and  hands 
are  pelted,  or  the  lime-powder  gets  into  the  eyes,  the  sensation 
is  rather  painful  than  otherwise.  The  Papal  government,  mind 
ful  of  this  fact,  issue  the  strictest  commands  against  such  mis 
siles  being  made  of  a  larger  size  than  the  samples  which  are 
deposited  in  the  Police  Office.  These  commands  are  obeyed 
with  an  accuracy  only  equalled  by  that  of  the  New  York  and 
Philadelphia  boys  in  regard  to  the  Fourth-of-July  edicts  against 
fireworks. 

The  Complimentary,  for  the  greater  part,  consist  of  small 
bouquets,  which  are  sold  in  vast  numbers  at  an  extremely  low 
price — say  a  shilling  the  half-peck.  To  these  may  be  added 
fancy  confectionery  of  every  description,  as  well  as  artificial 
flowers.  The  extravagance  of  the  Roman  ladies  and  gentlemen, 
in  these  last  two  items,  passes  belief.  I  seriously  believe  that 
many  a  man  literally  throws  away  daily,  during  the  Carnival, 


178  SKETCH-BOOK    OF    ME,    MEISTER    KARL. 

more  money  than  he  spends  weekly  at  other  seasons.  But  who 
thinks  of  prudence  or  economy  at  such  a  time?  Carnival  is 
short  and  Lent  is  long;  therefore,  vive  la  bagatelle,  and  hang 
to-morrow !  Such  is  the  principle  which  actuates  every  one 
during  this  soul-expanding-week. 

The  greater  part  of  a  man's  happiness  at  this  period  depends 
upon  the  skill  and  tact  which  he  displays  in  discharging  the 
last-mentioned  class  of  missiles.  Should  he  merely  fill  his 
carriage  with  flowers,  and  blindly  throw  away,  right  and  left, 
at  every  girl  he  meets,  he  may,  indeed,  stand  a  chance  of 
getting  flowers  in  return ;  but  the  kind  looks,  the  sweet  smiles, 
(not  to  mention  the  little  bags  .  and  baskets  full  of  sugar 
plums,)  all  of  these  delicate  and  interesting  attentions  will  be 
lost  to  him. 

What  should  he  do?  For  the  benefit  of  those  gentlemen 
who  propose  passing  the  next  Carnival  at  Rome,  I  would  say, 
throw  your  bouquets  at  individuals,  and  not,  as  most  do, 
at  windows  and  carriages.  Always  select  an  individual — 
catch  her  eye ;  and,  holding  out  your  bouquet  in  such  a 
manner  as  to  indicate  that  it  is  for  her  alone,  toss  it  gently 
to  her.  Having  done  this,  you  may,  with  modest-  confidence, 
hold  out  your  hat  to  catch  any  thing  which  she  may  cast 
in  return. 

The  indifferent  missiles  vary  in  the  manner  in  which  they 
are  applied.  Should  they  be  gently  tossed,  with  a  sweet  smile, 
we  may  safely  class  them  among  the  complimentary;  but  when 
thrown  with  violence,  they  are  most  decidedly  offensive.  They 
consist,  in  part,  of  oranges,  lemons,  large  balls  of  sugar,  heavy 
bon-bons,  and  bouquets  in  which  the  stem  is  the  principal  part. 

The  third  class  of  missiles  includes  potatoes,  pebbles,  cabbage- 
stalks,  £c.,  all  of  which  are  contraband. 

The  Corso  is  undoubtedly  the  head-quarters  of  the  Carnival; 
but  it  does  not  by  any  means  monopolize  all  the  fun.  In  order 
to  prevent  confusion,  carriages  are  compelled  to  follow  each  other 
in  succession,  keeping  to  the  left,  as  the  Roman  law  directs.  To 
return  to  their  place,  they  are  obliged  to  make  a  detour  through 
another  street,  generally  the  Ripetta;  therefore  the  Ripetta  be 
comes  itself  the  scene  of  a  small  carnival.  Moreover,  all  those 
pedestrian  masks  to  whom  acting  is  necessary  in  order  to  freely 
exhibit  the  part  which  they  have  assumed,  are  obliged  to  seek  a 


THE    CARNIVAL   AT   ROME.  179 

street  not  over  crowded,  such  as  the  Ripetta,  in  order  to  obtain 
an  audience.  The  visitor,  therefore,  who  wishes  to  freely  enjoy 
the  Carnival,  must  not  neglect  this  street. 

These  pedestrian  maskers  are,  to  many,  the  most  interesting 
part  of  the  Carnival.  Every  one  is  sustaining  a  part;  and  not 
unfrequently  two  or  three  unite  for  this  purpose.  You  will  see 
banditti  bending  low,  and  stealing  with  stealthy  steps  around  the 
corner,  threatening  to  rob  the  unwary  passer-by  of  his  last  sugar 
plum.  An  elderly  lady,  apparently  from  the  country,  with  a 
coal-scuttle  bonnet  and  mask  admirably  adapted  to  express 
terror  and  confusion,  rushes  madly  through  the  crowd  at  right 
angles,  shrieking  aloud  for  her  lost  child.  A  man  bearing  his 
wife  on  his  back,  and  six  children  hung  round,  passes  by ;  you 
laugh,  but  are  deceived  by  the  sight;  nor  is  it  until  a  close  ex 
amination  that  you  discover  that,  of  all  this  interesting  family, 
the  man  only  is  real — the  wife  and  children  being  composed  of 
papicr-maclie. 

I  observed  a  party  of  maskers  in  a  car  festooned  with  ever 
green,  and  drawn  by  a  donkey  neatly  dressed  for  the  occasion 
in  white  pantaloons  and  brown  coat,  with  his  tail  in  a  bag.  The 
unfortunate  animal  walked  along  with  slow  steps,  apparently  in  a 
dream.  He  was  completely  confused,  bewildered.  No  longer  an 
inhabitant  of  this  world,  he  was  apparently  in  a  transition  state 
to  that  future  life  where,  according  to  the  Pantagruelist,  beasts 
change  conditions  with  their  masters. 

Every  one  at  Rome,  as  I  have  already  intimated,  either  gives 
or  receives  flowers  during  this  period.  But  how  can  this  apply  to 
young  ladies  who  are  doomed,  by  cruel  fate  or  a  cross  papa, 
to  sit  in  third,  fourth,  or  even  fifth-story  windows,  and  watch 
the  passers-by?  Roman  genius  has  surmounted  this  difficulty  by 
an  astonishing  invention.  This  consists  of  a  number  of  wooden 
bars,  joined  together  in  such  a  manner  that  when  opened  their 
united  length  is  sufficient  to  reach  the  said  window;  but  when 
closed  and  lying  together  parallel,  they  may  be  carried  without 
difficulty  under  the  arm.  To  open  and  shut  these  ingenious  con 
trivances  requires  skill.  When  a  gentleman  wishes  to  convey  a 
flower  or  bon-bon  to  a  lady,  he  attaches  it  to  the  end  of  this 
machine  and  shoots  it  up  to  her  window.  She,  detaching  it,  affixes 
another,  which  the  machine,  closing,  with  a  noise  like  the  report 
of  a  pistol,  bears  to  its  master. 

16 


180  SKETCH-BOOK    OF    ME,    JNIEISTER    KARL. 

The  war  with  the  plaster-plums  rages  to  a  terrible  extent. 
English  gentlemen  and  ladies  are,  however,  the  principal  actors 
in  this  offensive  warfare.  They  are  the  only  persons  who  are  so 
carried  away  by  mad  excitement  and  over-heated  enthusiasm,  as 
to  literally  pour  the  plaster  by  the  peck  upon  passers-by,  without 
distinction  of  age  or  sex.  To  protect  yourself  from  such  foes,  it 
is  necessary  to  wear  a  wire  mask,  a  blouse,  a  broad-brimmed 
white  sombrero,  and  a  smiling  face,  (for  a  Carnival  mask  doth 
hardly  conceal  the  features.)  Thus  armed  and  equipped  according 
to  universal  custom,  you  may  bid  defiance  to  a  pelting  world. 
The  Carnival  of  each  day  begins  at  two  o'clock,  and  closes  just 
before  the  Angclus,  with  a  horse-race.  The  steeds — according  to 
the  universal  custom  which  has  given  the  street  its  name — run 
directly  through  the  Corso,  from  the  Obelisk  to  Torlonia's  palace. 
In  this  race,  the  horses  are  without  riders;  and  being  goaded  to 
the  last  pitch  previous  to  the  start,  are  urged  on  by  the  pricking 
and  clattering  of  the  sharp  iron  plates  with  which  they  are 
hung,  as  well  as  by  the  shouts  of  the  spectators.  So  excited 
do  the  latter  become  at  this  spectacle,  that  it  requires  the  utmost 
efforts,  at  the  close  of  the  race,  for  the  soldiers  to  prevent  them 
from  rushing  in  and  stopping  the  horses.  Several  times,  during 
this  present  Carnival,  men  have  been  very  seriously  wounded  by 
the  bayonets  of  the  guard. 

And  so  it  goes  on,  madder  and  madder,  and  wilder  and  wilder, 
like  the  witches'  festival  of  a  Walpurgis  night.  On  the  last 
day,  the  excitement  is  at  its  highest  pitch.  Flowers,  bon-bons, 
and  plums  are  thrown,  poured,  and  shot  with  an  unsparing 
hand.  The  number  of  carriages  is  doubled.  Multitudes  of 
maskers,  hitherto  unseen,  make  their  appearance;  while  many 
of  the  old  stagers  vary  their  dresses  in  such  a  manner  as  to 
give  a  new  interest  to  the  scene.  But  the  climax  of  this  deli 
rium  appears  in  the  hour  succeeding  the  race  of  the  last  day. 
Then,  indeed,  the  traveller  will  behold  a  spectacle  wilder, 
stranger,  and  more  exciting  than  any  thing  which  he  has  ever 
before  imagined. 

I  refer  to  the  ceremony  of  "  Extinguishing  the  Carnival,"  as 
it  is  termed — a  ceremony  in  which  every  one  bears  a  part.  Let 
us  imagine  the  masking  and  pelting  of  the  day  well  over,  and 
the  revellers  returning  by  thousands  from  the  race.  Suddenly 
a  noise  is  heard  in  the  direction  of  the  Corso ;  and  you,  perceiv- 


THE    CARNIVAL    AT    ROME.  181 

ing  that  all  the  maskers  are  bending  their  way  thither,  join 
them. 

As  you  enter  the  Corso,  a  light  like  that  of  an  immense  con 
flagration  appears.  You  press  on,  and  as  you  enter,  a  sight 
meets  your  eyes,  the  like  of  which  the  world  cannot  furnish. 
The  whole  street,  more  than  a  mile  in  length,  is  crowded  to  suf 
focation  with  crowds  of  people,  every  individual  bearing  in  his 
hands  a  torch  or  taper.  Lights  are  flashing  from  roof  and  bal 
cony,  and  their  glare  is  reflected  from  the  crimson  and  gold 
canopies  which  yet  overhang  the  houses.  The  carriages  still 
continue  their  course,  but  their  occupants  are  holding  tapers ; 
and,  at  intervals,  in  the  crowd,  you  see  long  poles  to  which 
lanterns  are  hung  or  torches  tied.  It  would  seem  as  if  the 
entire  population  of  Rome  were  bent  on  illuminating  the  Corso 
to  the  utmost  extent.  As  you  gaze,  you  perceive  that  these 
lights  are  continually  being  extinguished  and  relighted.  Every 
individual  appears  bent  on  beating  out  his  neighbour's  light  and 
preserving  his  own;  and  against  every  luckless  wight  whose 
tapers  are  thus  extinguished,  or  who  appears  taperless  on  the 
ground,  the  cry  of  "SENZA  MOCCOLO"  is  raised  by  his  more 
fortunate  neighbours.  These  two  words,  signifying  literally, 
"  without  a  candle/'  are  the  only  ones  which  are  heard.  For 
merly,  the  cry  raised  during  the  "  Extinguishment"  was,  "Sia 
ammazato  chi  non  porta  moccolo" — <(  Let  him  who  is  without  a 
taper  be  assassinated."  But,  in  these  days,  assassination  is 
becoming  unpopular  even  in  Rome.  And  the  roar  of  the  voices 
— which  is  truly  overpowering — the  red,  flashing  sheet,  appear 
ing  in  the  distance  like  a  gulf  of  fire,  and  the  quaint  devices 
which  everywhere  meet  the  eye,  are  enough,  in  truth,  to  make 
the  spectator  believe  that  all  the  wildest  delusions,  the  maddest 
magic  fantasies  of  Domdaniel,  or  the  "House  of  Wrath/'  are 
being  realized  in  the  city  of  Rome. 

The  lights  which  are  used  in  the  <(  Senza  Moccolo"  consist  of 
slender  wax  tapers  with  large  wicks.  Several  of  these  are 
twisted  together,  and  a  large  flame  is  thus  produced,  which  it 
would  be  next  to  impossible  to  blow  out  with  the  breath.  To 
effect  the  extinguishment  of  these,  the  Roman  ties  one  end  of  a 
handkerchief  to  a  switch,  and,  thus  armed,  flaps  away  right  and 
left.  It  sometimes  occurs  that,  while  thus  employed  in  "  dous 
ing  the  glim,"  the  candle-holder  catches  hold  of  the  handker- 


182  SKETCH-BOOK    OF    ME,    MEISTER    KARL. 

chief.  In  such  a  case,  if  the  captor  be  a  foreigner,  it  is  at  once 
applied  to  the  flame  and  burnt;  but  if  a  native,  it  is  quietly 
pocketed. 

One  of  the  most  astonishing  points  in  these  scenes  is  the 
perfect  good  humour  which  prevails  throughout.  An  angry 
word,  or  even  look,  is  very  rare.  "  Were  this  thing  tried  among 
us,"  quoth  Yon  Schwartz,  my  companion,  from  under  his  som 
brero,  "there  would  be  more  than  ten  thousand  fights,  to  the 
death,  in  less  than  three  minutes." 

Vdn  Schwartz  lost  his  temper  once  during  the  "Extinguish 
ment."  A  very  pretty  young  lady  in  a  carriage  having  dropped 
her  taper,  Von  Schwartz  politely  relighted  it  and  returned  it  to 
her.  And  what  did  the  fair  Italian  ?  She  not  only  blew  out  his 
light,  but  actually  snatched  it  from  him. 

"Oh,  ye  Roman  ladies!"  groaned  Von  Schwartz,  "would  that 
Juvenal  were  alive  again,  even  for  your  sakes !" 

And  thus,  in  tumult  and  revel  and  wild  uproar,  ends  the  Car 
nival.  But  nothing  strikes  the  observer  more  than  the  sudden 
transition  to  the  gloom  and  silence  of  Lent.  The  sun  which  sets 
on  the  wildest  gayety  and  confusion,  rises  on  prayer,  repentance, 
and  fasting.  The  lord  of  misrule,  who  hath  borne  it  bravely  for 
a  season  in  minivere  and  gold,  now  yields  his  crown  to  the 
friar  and  monk,  who,  in  silent  power,  confess  the  sins  of  his 
followers — 

Comedia  luget—Scena  cst  deserta. 

And  at  night  when  I  sat  alone,  I  strove  to  recall  many  of  the 
events  of  the  day;  but  it  was  in  vain,  for  each  memory  vanished 
in  a  vague,  wild  sensation  of  indefinable  excitement.  I  thought 
of  the  "senza  moccolo"  and  could  recall  only  a  flickering  sea  of 
fire.  And  the  myriad  roar  and  wild  shrieks  of  the  multitude 
now  came  upon  me  as  a  confused  hum,  or  buzz,  by  no  means 
exciting,  but  somewhat  disposing  me  to  sleepiness.  And  I 
thought  that  if,  at  the  present  day,  any  one  could  be  gifted  with 
the  miraculous  hearing  of  Fine-Ear,  in  the  old  fairy-tale,  so  that 
all  sounds  in  the  world  could  be  audible  to  him  at  once,  even 
unto  the  grass  growing,  and  the  trickling  of  the  deepest  waters 
which  lie  darkling  under  the  earth,  it  would  soon  result  in  one 
vast  single  sound — perhaps  a  very  dull  music  indeed,  if  not  a 
very  disagreeable  one.  And  omniscience  itself  to  a  mortal  would 


THE    CARNIVAL   AT    ROME.  183 

be  at  last  wearisome  or  maddening.  So  rest  thee  content  in  thy 
sphere,  Karl,  believing  that  one  Carnival  is  enough  in  a  year,  as 
one  noise  is  enough  at  a  time  j  and  that  he  who  desires  to  hear 
more  than  his  quantum,  must  have  ears  of  the  longest. 

But  the  hum  still  rung  in  my  ears  and  would  not  die. 
Cyntliius  aurem  vdlet  e.t  admonuit.  I  understood  the  signal, 
and  my  last  drop  of  ink  went  out  with  the  following  rhymes  : 

THE  WORLD'S  CONCERT. 

I  heard  the  steeples  pouring  forth 

Their  storm-bells'  roaring  din  ; 

And  the  songs  of  merry  companies, 

As  they  sat  so  snug  within  ; 
The  measured  tread  of  armies  proud, 
The  dash  of  the  restless  sea  ! — 

"  And  it's  buzz  .'"  quoth  the  world, 
As  on  she  whirl'd, 
And  away  with  the  world  went  we  ! 

I  heard  a  martyr  at  the  stake 

Groan  out,  "  in  Domino  !" 
I  heard  five  infants  squall  at  night, 

While  cats  yell'd  out  below. 
I  heard  a  preacher  pounding  texts 
To  a  godly  companie  ; 

"And  it's  litzz!"  quoth  the  world, 
As  on  she  whirl'd, 
And  away  with  the  world  went  we  ! 

I  heard  a  dainty  cavalier 
Sing  to  his  ladye-love  ; 
While  fountains  in  the  moon-ray  plash'd, 

And  the  lady  sigh'd  above. 
And  I  heard  the  click  of  the  cold  white  dice, 
With  curses  pealing  free; 

"And  it's  buzz!"  quoth  the  world, 
As  on  she  whirl'd, 
And  away  with  the  world  went  we  ! 

I  heard  a  swan's  sweet  dying  song, 

I  heard  the  tempest's  breath  : 
I  heard  a  lady  thrash  her  lord, 

And  she  thrash'd  him  half  to  death. 
And  I  heard  a  scholar  turning  leaves, 
With  the  scream  of  an  angry  flea! 

"  And  it's  buzz  !"  quoth  the  world, 
As  on  she  whirl'd, 
And  away  with  the  world  went  we ! 
16* 


184  SKETCH-BOOK    OF    ME,    MEISTER   KARL 

Yes ;  music,  thunder,  growls,  and  groans, 

With  shouts  and  shots  in  store, 
While  powder-mills  exploded  fast — 

But  I  could  stand  no  more! 
I  stopp'd  my  ears,  I  howl'd  a  prayer, 
And  swoon'd  in  agony : 

"And  it's  buzz!"  quoth  the  world, 
As  on  she  whirl'd, 
And  away  with  the  world  went  we  ! 


CHAPTER  THE   TWENTY-FOURTH. 

LEGENDS    OF    FLEMISH    ART. 

Connubilis  Amor  de  Mulcilre  fecit  Apellem. 
A  lady  made  the  Courier  write  on  Art. 

I  WAS  strolling  one  day  with  a  party  of  gentlemen  and  ladies 
through  the  Museum  or  Picture  Gallery  of  the  Hague,  enjoying 
that  greatest  intellectual  pleasure — the  admiration  of  splendid 
works  of  art  in  company  with  congenial  spirits.  Suddenly, 
Mrs.  C exclaimed — 

"What  a  pity,  that  to  fully  appreciate  the  worlc,  it  always 
seems  so  necessary  to  know  something  of  the  artist!  And  then, 
when  travelling,  we  have  no  time  to  read ;  and  at  home,  the  pic 
tures  or  statues  are  nearly  all  forgotten." 

"The  lives  of  artists  are  almost  invariably  interesting,"  re 
plied  Count  d'Egerlyn;  "  and  I  believe  that  in  every  instance 
the  style  of  the  picture  is  the  reflection  of  the  painter's  peculiar 
state  of  mind.  No  one  ever  painted  well  who  did  not  mix  his 
soul  with  the  colours." 

"Now,"  said  Mrs.  C ,  "I  propose  that  Meister  Karl  read 

or  relate  to  us  this  very  evening  some  story  or  other  of  the  old 
painters.  I  would  like  to  refresh  and  add  to  the  little  informa 
tion  I  already  possess." 

The  Meister  bowed  assent,  and  his  afternoon  was  passed  in 
scribbling  a  sketch  of  Bamboche.  To  this,  on  subsequent  days, 
others  were  added,  and  it  is  not  impossible  that  a  book  would 
have  grown  out  of  Mrs.  C 's  request,  had  time  and  travel 


LEGENDS    OF    FLEMISH    ART.  185 

permitted.  Three  or  four  of  the  shorter  legends,  founded  on 
Houssaye's  History  of  Flemish  Painting,  form  the  substance  of 
the  following  chapter : 

BAMBOCIIE,   THE   VIOLIN   PAINTER. 

IL  y  a  clans  tous  ses  tableaux  je  ne  sais  quel  joyeau  air  de  violon  qui  vous 
6gaye  douceinent.  On  sait  qu'il  avait  1'habitude,  comme  Brackemburg,  de  se 
jouer  un  air  avant  de  se  inettre  a  1'oeuvre.  Son  violonne  le  quittait  pas.  Pour 
se  reposer  de  peindre,  il  jouait  du  violon;  pour  se  remettre  en  verve,  il  en 
jouait  encore.  BAJIBOCHE.  A  Houssaye,  Hist,  de  la  Peinture  Flamande. 

THE  good  artist,  Nicholas  Poussin,  had  laboured  long  and 
patiently  over  his  exquisite  painting  of  "  Arcadia"  at  his  house 
in  Rome,  near  Trinita  del  Monte.  Line  by  line,  shade  by  shade, 
it  approached  perfection.  But  day  by  day  these  efforts  became 
rarer.  It  was  only  in  the  ever-varying  intercourse  with  men 
that  he  could  sustain  his  inspiration;  and,  of  late,  the  society  of 
the  artists  and  scholars  who  were  wont  at  stated  hours  to  sur 
round  him,  had  become  monotonous  and  wearisome. 

"Pardieu!"  he  exclaimed  one  evening,  weariedly  leaning 
back  and  throwing  aside  his  brush.  "This  is  becoming  insup 
portable.  The  sketch,  the  outline,  the  body — is,  indeed,  mine  ! 
But  the  soul,  the  colour,  the  life — whence  shall  I  derive  it  ?" 

His  reveries  were  broken  by  the  distant  music  of  a  violin, 
which  was  quaintly,  but  wonderfully  played.  At  times  it 
seemed  approaching  the  house,  and  would  sound  forth  with  a 
saucy  familiarity,  as  if  its  invisible  bearer  was  about  to  enter 
with  a  triumphal  march,  and  then  would  suddenly  retreat  with 
a  hurry-skurry,  discordant  vibration,  as  if  the  dogs  had  been  set 
loose  on  it.  Far  in  the  distance  it  indulged  in  a  plaintive  wail, 
and  ere  long,  would  suddenly  be  heard  almost  under  the  window, 
quivering  and  starting  as  if  the  musician  were  in  his  soul  reeling 
with  laughter,  and  at  times  bolting  forth  the  queerest  scraps  of 
Flemish  and  Italian  drinking-songs,  which  reminded  one  of 
nothing  so  much  as  the  intoxication  of  a  Kermesse,  and  induced 
a  suspicion  that  the  inspiration  of  this  wild  musician  was  derived 
from  a  Bacchic  source. 

"It  is  strange!"  thought  Poussin;  "this  is  the  third  evening 
that  this  goblin  fiddle  has  been  heard  around  the  house;  and  yet 
no  one,  that  I  can  learn,  has  seen  the  performer.  Better  music 
heard  I  never;  stranger  music,  no  man.  It  must  be  that  the 


186  SKETCH-BOOK    OF    ME,    MEISTER   KARL. 

odd  fellow,  since  he  answers  none  of  the  servants,  desires  speech 
with  me  alone.  Let  us  try !" 

With  these  words  he  advanced  to  the  open  casement;  and, 
stepping  forth  upon  the  terrace,  cried  with  a  loud  voice — 

"Devil — APPEAR  !" 

Scarcely  had  he  uttered  these  words  ere  there  scrambled  or 
almost  tumbled  down  upon  the  terrace,  from  an  overhanging 
tree,  a  form  which  half  induced  Poussin  to  believe  that  the 
invocation  uttered  in  jest  had  been  responded  to  in  earnest.  An 
odd,  little  humpbacked  man,  clad  in  Flemish  hose  and  doublet, 
stood  before  him,  eyeing  him  with  a  fierce  glance  from  over  an 
enormous  pair  of  "matador"  moustachios,  and  beneath  a  "fautre 
a  plumet,"  whose  bellicose  position  added  not  a  little  to  the  ruf 
fling,  swaggering  aspect  of  the  owner. 

"And  who  art  thou,  friend?''  asked,  in  his  mildest  tones, 
Poussin. 

"I  am  BAMBOCHE!"  replied  with  queer  gravity  the  little 
man,  twisting  up  his  moustache.  "Bamboche  the  Great! — 
Bamboche  the  Illustrious — the  Fiddling — THE  NOBLE — THE 
FIGHTING !" 

And,  drawing  his  bow  in  accompaniment  over  the  violin,  he 
sang,  in  a  loud,  wild  scream — 

"  BAM — BO — OCHE  !" 

"And  wilt  thou  play  me  again  some  of  those  sweet  airs  which 
I  heard  yesterday  evening?"  inquired  Poussin. 

"It  was  for  that  I  came!"  cried  Bamboche.  "Thou  hast 
waited  for  me,  and  knew  it  not.  But  I  knew  it — ha!  ha!  ha! — 
the  work  could  not  go  on  without  little  Bamboche — little  devil 
Bamboche — mad  little  Bamboche  !" 

And  with  these  flattering  expressions,  the  violinist  entered 
the  atelier,  and,  crowing  and  cluttering  like  a  chicken,  began  to 
look  around.  At  times,  flapping  his  arms  like  wings,  he  would 
stand  on  one  leg,  absorbed  in  admiration,  before  a  painting.  A 
stuffed  cat  in  a  corner  attracted  him  wonderfully;  so  much, 
indeed,  that  he  treated  her  to  a  short  but  remarkably  well-im 
provised  serenade  on  the  violin,  accompanied  with  violent  vocal 
inewings  and  feline  spittings,  nodding  and  winking  oddly  betimes 
to  Poussin,  in  a  manner  imitating  his  perfect  familiarity  with 
the  nature  and  nocturnal  habits  of  this  animal.  Then,  seizing  a 
portfolio,  he  would  shuffle  out  the  engravings  and  sketches  with 


LEGENDS   OF   FLEMISH   ART.  187 

incredible  quickness,  moving  his  arms,  meanwhile,  like  the  fore 
legs  of  a  turnspit  cur  when  running  rapidly;  yelping  and  barking 
with  delight  as  each  met  his  eye. 

"The  crazy  rogue  is  evidently  fond  of  pictures,"  thought 
Poussin. 

"Hey,  Signor  Bamboccio! — dost  thou  know  aught  of  Art? 
Canst  thou  paint?" 

"Yea,"  replied  Bamboche,  drawing  from  his  violin  a  long  note, 
which  of  itself  sounded  wonderfully  like  an  affirmative.  "  Yea, 
for  the  soul  is  mine,  and,  consequently,  I  can  develop  pictorially 
and  plastically  that  which  is  acoustically  and  musically  conceived. 
Music  is  the  mamma  of  all  pictures.  The  chant  of  the  blessed 
angels  mingled  with  the  sweet,  voluptuous  voice  of  a  white- 
throated  beauty,  and  became  incarnate  in  a  picture  of  Raphael. 
But  little  Bamboche  saw  it  this  morning,  and  knew  every  note 
of  the  tune,  and  played  it  off  at  sight.  But  I  missed  two  bars  in 
the  Virgin's  blue  drapery,  and  found  afterward  that  a  hole  had 
been  sewed  up  in  the  canvass,  and  some  fool  had  painted  it  sadly 
over.  Bravo!  bravo!  Bamboche!" 

Upon  this  he  seized  the  palette  and  brushes  of  Poussin,  and 
placing  a  clean  canvass  on  an  easel,  drew  up,  and  said,  proudly — 

"Now  I  will  fiddle  you  a  picture !" 

And  with  this,  seizing  his  violin,  he  ran  confusedly  over  seve 
ral  symphonies,  as  if  seeking  a  subject.  At  last  he  appeared  to 
have  struck  the  key;  for  assuming  an  irresistibly  droll  attitude, 
and  winking  and  shrugging  as  if  intoxicated,  he  half  sung,  half 
played,  a  ribald  old  Flemish  street-song : 

A  priest  went  strolling  through  the  land; 

Hey  ! — 'twas  in  the  May ! 
He  caught  a  young  nun  by  the  hand. 

Hey  ! — 'twas  in  the  May,  they  say, 
•«  Hey  !— 'twas  in  the  May ! 

At  times,  grasping  the  chalk,  he  would  sketch  the  figure  of  a 
jovial  Capuchin,  wickedly  pressing  the  hand  of  a  pretty  nun. 
In  the  background,  but  near  the  figures,  appeared  the  outline  of 
an  old  monastery,  while  about  were  scattered  fragments  of  ruins. 
Whenever  he  paused,  or  appeared  at  a  loss,  he  would  seize  the 
violin,  and  with  a  few  bars  readily  revive  the  design  as  it  grew 
dim  in  his  mind.  Soon  he  began,  with  light  and  hasty  touches, 
to  colour  the  sketch.  Now  he  played  more  frequently  and  deli- 


188  SKETCH-BOOK     OF    ME,    MEISTER    KARL. 

cately,  introducing  the  quaintest  variations  on  the  original  air  as 
he  shaded  the  countenances.  And  more  than  once,  his  touches 
corresponded  so  evidently  and  strikingly  with  the  notes  preced 
ing  them,  that  Poussin,  who  was  gifted  with  a  good  ear,  as  well 
as  a  quick  appreciation  of  mathematical  proportion,  could  not  re 
sist  a  rapidly-increasing  impression  that  the  painting  was  a  literal 
transcript  of  the  music.  As  he  gazed,  the  strange  feeling  grew 
upon  him,  that  by  any  one  who  had  once  mastered  this  language 
of  musical  and  optical  harmony,  the  picture,  with  all  its  varia 
tions,  might  be  as  readily  played  back  again  on  the  violin,  as  it 
was  now  painted  from  its  music. 

"I  have  heard,"  thought  he,  "that  if  sand  be  laid  lightly  and 
sparely  on  a  thin  sheet  of  glass,  the  vibration  of  a  lute  or  violin 
will  cause  it  to  fly  hither  and  thither,  yet  ever  arranging  itself  at 
every  perfect  note  into  a  symmetrical  and  beautiful  form.  How 
strange  it  seems!  What  if  that  which  to  us  unthinking  mor 
tals  appears  so  wild,  fantastic,  and  evanescent — the  music  of 
the  wind-harp,  or  the  soft,  sad  wail  of  the  evening  breeze — should 
be  capable  of  impressing  its  form  and  corresponding  image  on 
the  material?  Truly  there  be  men,  yea,  and  poets  too,  on  whose 
souls,  as  on  the  unconscious  glass,  Nature  by  her  music  doth 
quaintly  and  sweetly  shape  from  a  few  sands  of  learning,  the 
most  delicate  and  dainty  devices.  Of  such  a  texture  must  be 
the  soul  of  this  wild  one,  who  thus  sports  with  the  deep  mysteries 
of  Art.  And  thus  I  feel  that  all  things  mirror  each  other,  and 
that  all  are  reflected  and  made  permanent  in  One. 

For  over  the  green  world,  far  and  wide, 
By  the  foaming  sea — on  the  mountain  side  ; 
Where  in  soul  or  in  form  a  thought  hath  been, 
A  spirit  immortal  in  God  is  seen. 

"And  thus,  Signer  Poussin,"  exclaimed  Bamboche,  "I  have 
set  forth  to  you  the  musical  signatura  rerum  of  which  I,  the 
moustachioed,  am  a  pictorial  apostle.  Nor  in  pictures  alone  do 
I  thus  translate, — having  written  off  and  played  the  entire  Cathe 
dral  of  Milan  in  E  minor  I  And  faces  ! — oh,  faces  I — I  have  set 
the  face  of  the  gray  horseman, — the  lying  gray  horseman, — the 
foolish  gray  horseman, — "Wouvermanns, — to  music;  and,  as  I 
expected,  it  was  a  most  scurvy  ballad, — a  filthy  tune,  not  fit  for 
the  sweeps!" 

"But,"  he  continued,  after  a  pause,   "it  was  not  for  that  I 


LEGENDS   OF   FLEMISH   ART.  189 

came.  No !  it  was  to  play  a  soft  and  genial  air, — a  sweet  air  of 
ancient  Arcady.  For  thy  picture  must  be  finished,  and  will  be 
finished,  and  go  forth  to  the  world  the  fairest,  gentlest  portrayal 
of  the  old  sylvan  time  that  man  hath  ever  beheld.  <ET  IN  AR 
CADIA  EGO' — Bamboche  is  a  great  fiddler; — his  notes  are  pence, 
and  he  gives  them  away  in  charity/' 

With  this,  the  little  man,  motioning  his  host  to  a  seat,  began 
on  his  instrument  a  series  of  gentle,  half-melancholy  airs,  which 
awoke  in  the  mind  of  Poussiu  an  ecstasy  of  inspiration.  Softer 
and  softer  they  died  away,  and  awoke  again  in  merry,  dancing 
measures,  which  still  bore  the  impress  of  sadness,  as  if  Memory 
were  recalling  the  pleasant  hours  of  youth.  A  wild  transition, 
and  his  soul  was  with  the  good  and  kind,  long  passed  away. 
From  distant  mountain  and  shady  shore  came,  borne  on  the 
wings  of  the  night  wind,  the  sad  burden — "We  return  no  more. 
We  have  lived  and  loved,  and  our  life  was  beautiful.  We,  too, 
were  once  dwellers  on  sunny  Arcadie."  And  as  the  sounds  grew 
ever  sadder  and  sweeter,  Poussin,  the  great  artist,  buried  his 
face  in  his  hands,  and  gave  way  to  a  flood  of  tears.  Still  sadder 
and  softer  grew  the  strains, — softer, — softer, — and  died  away. 

When  Poussin  raised  his  head,  the  strange,  wild  visitor  had 
disappeared.  But  the  spirit  of  music  and  artistic  inspiration 
seemed  even  yet  to  linger,  like  a  dying  perfume,  in  the  apart 
ment. 

"And  now,"  exclaimed  Poussin,  "thanks  to  thee,  wild  mu 
sician  !  I  can  finish  my  Arcady  in  the  spirit  in  which  it  was  first 
conceived." 


NOTES   TO   THE   FOREGOING. 

"  THE  Flemish  and  Dutch  artists,"  says  DARGENVILLE,  "  who  resided  in  Rome 
at  the  end  of  the  sixteenth  century,  had  formed  a  society,  admitting  no  mem 
bers  of  any  other  nation.  The  meetings  of  this  strange  Academy  of  Art  were 
held — not  in  a  temple — but  in  a  tavern.  Nothing  could  be  imagined  more  sin 
gular  than  the  ceremonies  which  accompanied  their  receptions,  which  in  many 
respects  recalled  the  Bacchic  rites  and  orgies.  Disguised  as  druids  or  satyrs, 
but  with  bed-coverings  for  cloaks,  they /ndulged  in  the  wildest  and  most  extrava 
gant  buffoonery,  at  the  conclusion  of  which  a  soubriquet  was  bestowed  upon  the 
newly-initiated,  which  he  was  obliged  to  add  to  his  proper  name." 

It  was  in  this  wild  fraternity  that  PETER  VAN  LAAR  had  received  the  nom  de 
guerre  of  BAMBOCCIO  or  Bamboche ;  "on  account,"  says  KUGLER,  "of  his  singular 
deformed  figure ;"  and  under  which,  according  to  ARSENE  HOUSSAYE,  "his  own 


190  SKETCH-BOOK    OF    ME,    MEISTER    KARL. 

name  has  almost  entirely  disappeared."  Nature,  which  had  denied  comeliness 
to  his  body,  could  not  detract  from  his  joyous,  cheerful  disposition,  or  withhold 
from  him  the  genius  which  enabled  him  to  give  his  name  to,  and  found  a  new 
school  and  style  of  painting.  For  it  was  from  him  that  the  Italians  and  French 
derived  the  name  of  fiambochade,  which  serves  even  at  the  present  day  to  indi 
cate  those  small  Flemish  pictures  representing  views  of  familiar  life.  Nor  was 
he  less  gifted  in  portraying  hunting  and  robber  scenes,  fairs,  sea-pieces,  and 
cavalcades,  in  which  latter  he  far  surpassed  his  rival,  WOUVERMANNS,  "since 
his  style  was  larger  and  more  becoming  a  true  artist." 

Grieved  at  the  death  of  his  two  younger  brothers,  who  were  murdered  in 
Italy,  and  discouraged  at  finding  the  works  of  his  rival,  Wouvermanns,  pre 
ferred  to  his  own,  this  wild  artist  is  said  to  have  put  an  end  to  his  eccentric 
life  by  leaping  into  a  pit. 

Since  writing  the  Legend  of  Bamboche,  I  have  met  with  a  remarkably  ex 
cellent  and  characteristic  "History  of  the  Flemish  and  Dutch  Schools  of  Paint 
ing,  by  the  REV.  T.  JAMES,  London,  1822,"  in  which  the  following  passages 
occur,  relative  to  the  artist  GERARD  LAIRESSE,  who  has  been  regarded  as  the 
Poussin  of  the  Flemish  school: — 

"VAN  PEE,  GHEBBER,  and  other  artists  of  Amsterdam,  had  been  invited  to 
the  house  of  Uylenburg,  in  order  to  see  the  prodigy  LAIRESSE;  and  a  pallet 
being  put  into  his  hand,  he  was  requested,  without  much  further  preamble,  to 
give  them  a  sample  of  his  talent.  They  were,  as  it  seems,  a  little  surprised  at 
his  not  instantly  setting  to  work;  but  even  an  improvisatore  must  wait  the  ap 
proach  of  the  ortjasme — and  so  Lairesse.  He  stood  mute  for  several  minutes, 
apparently  rapt  in  meditation ;  then,  on  a  sudden,  he  took  out  a  violin  from 
beneath  his  clothes,  and  played  a  few  airs;  and  instantly  afterward,  seizing 
upon  the  crayon  and  painting-brushes,  he  sketched  out,  with  vast  rapidity,  a, 
design  for  a  picture  of  the  birth  of  our  Saviour.  He  now  left  his  seat,  and  re 
sumed  his  violin;  and  after  playing  as  before  for  some  little  time,  sat  down 
afresh,  and  worked  for  upward  of  two  hours,  in  which  period  he  had  finished 
the  heads  of  the  infant  Christ,  the  Virgin  Mary,  and  Joseph,  and  that  of  an  ox 
hanging  over  the  manger.  These  were  all,  as  they  say,  painted  up  at  once  in 
a  very  masterly  and  finished  style,  and  conceived  in  a  manner  that  called  forth 
expressions  of  the  highest  admiration  from  all  present. 

"  There  is  nothing  in  all  this  that  should  seem  extraordinary ;  a  similar  in 
stance  has  been  mentioned  before,  and  which  admits  of  a  similar  explanation : 
the  ancient  mythology  made  all  the  nine  Muses  sisters ;  and  even  in  our  modern 
phraseology  we  keep  up  the  same  degree  of  relationship  between  music  and 
painting.  Ideas,  or  pictures  of  things,  and  emotions  of  the  soul,  are  called  up 
in  the  mind  by  words :  words  are  sounds  to  which  these  associations  have  been 
by  habit  attached,  there  being  evidently  no  natural  connection  between  them. 
Certain  musical  sounds  also  suggest  certain  emotions  and  ideas,  not  indeed, 
always  by  habitual  association,  but  (which  is  stronger)  by  some  secret  natural 
connection  that  exists  between  them ;  that  is,  in  all  who  have  any  relish  for  the 
harmony  of  music.  The  nature  of  the  inspiration  in  the  story  just  related  is, 
therefore,  simple  and  natural ;  ideas,  or  pictures  of  things,  were  called  up  by 
the  suggestion  of  musical  sounds  :  nor  can  it  be  held  extraordinary  that  when 
the  natural  connection  between  the  two  came  to  be  further  strengthened  by 
habit,  the  suggestions  which  arose  should  be  embodied  into  shape,  and  even 
receive  a  certain  degree  of  precision,  in  a  mind  attentive  to  the  objects  with 
which  a  painter  is  necessarily  conversant.  The  mind  of  Lairesse  must  natu- 


LEGENDS    OF   FLEMISH    ART.  191 

rally  have  been  employed  in  such  associations  every  time  that  he  amused  him 
self  with  his  instrument;  and  by  the  length  of  practice  necessary  to  acquire 
such  skill  in  music  as  it  appears  he  displayed,  they  had  grown  so  strong  as  to 
furnish  him,  not  merely  with  the  tone  of  feeling  necessary  for  his  work,  but 
with  the  actual  perception  of  colour  and  form ;  in  short,  with  all  the  very  ima 
gery  which  he  might  require  for  the  purpose  of  composition  in  painting." 


HANS  HEMLING,  THE  PAINTER  OF  BRUGES: 

AN   ART    LEGEND    OF   THE    FIFTEENTH    CENTUKY. 

Ic.li  that  am  Serge  stehen, 

Ich  schaute  in  dem  Thai ; 
Dort  hab'  ich  Sie  gesehen, 

Zum  allerletzten  mal. 

I  stood  upon  a  lofty  place, 

And  looked  out  on  the  plain  ; 
And  there  I  saw  a  lovely  face, 

I  never  saw  again.  HAUFF. 

IT  was  on  the  16th  of  September,  A.D.  1478,  that  the  porter 
of  the  Hospital  of  St.  John,  in  Bruges,  admitted,  to  the  cares  of 
its  attendant  nuns,  a  poor  soldier  bleeding  from  severe  wounds, 
and  exhausted  with  fatigue  and  exposure.  But,  despite  his  bare 
feet  and  tattered  garments,  there  was  somewhat  in  his  appearance 
which  betokened  gentle  birth,  so  that  even  the  rude  assistants 
who  bore  him  to  a  couch  did  so  with  a  tenderness  seldom  shown 
to  patients  of  such  low  degree. 

"A  shrewd  cut,  this  on  thy  head,  my  worthy  fellow!"  re 
marked  Brother  Jerome,  the  head  friar-physician,  while  occu 
pied  in  examining  the  soldier's  wounds.  "  That  gash,  I  trow, 
was  never  made  with  a  riding  switch.  And  now  I  must  pain 
thee  a  little  longer  with  my  needle.  Canst  thou  endure  it?" 

"ALS  IKH  KAN,"  replied  the  soldier,  half  vacantly.  And 
staring  upward,  he  again  repeated  the  Flemish  words — "  ALS  IKH 
KAN — als  ikh  £dff«/"* 

"  Als  ikh  kan !"  chimed  in  Frater  Jerome,  addressing  himself 
this  time  to  Sister  Bertha,  the  youngest  and  loveliest  of  the  nun- 
nurses;  "ah!  that  is  a  sentence  which  I  never  hear  without  a 
sigh.  It  is  the  noble  motto  of  the  great  and  glorious  artist 
JOHANNES  VAN  EYCK,  who  hath  of  late  years  brought  into  these 
our  Low  Countries  the  art  of  painting  curiously  in  oil.  And  I 

*  "I'll  do  my  best." — Comme  je  puts. 
17 


192  SKETCH-BOOK    OF    ME,    MEISTER    KARL. 

sigh,  my  daughter,  to  think  that,  despite  our  most  earnest  effort, 
the  Hospital  of  Saint  John  as  yet  contains  none  of  his  pictures. 
Did  not  the  worthy  Heer  Ward-Master,  himself,  offer  to  sell 
his  gold  chain  and  seal  to  secure  even  the  unfinished  triptych 
of  our  Lady,  now  in  the  Church  of  St.  Martinus  van  Ypern  ? 
And  even  the  Chapel  of  the  White  Lady  of  Antwerp  hath  its 
picture  by  Van  Eyck,  while  we  of  the  first  hospital  can  show 
naught,  save  a  barbarous  Greek  Christ  and  two  beggarly  saints 
by  Meijster  Hugo  van  der  Goes!  Well!  well!  fortune,  like 
marrying,  cometh  by  tarrying/! 

Sister  Bertha  paid,  however,  but  little  attention  to  the  regrets 
of  the  worthy  f rater.  Pier  attention  was  too  deeply  absorbed  by 
the  features  of  the  apparently  half-insensible  soldier.  That  faco 
— reader  you  may  see  its  likeness  to  this  day  in  the  same  room 
where  the  poor  patient  then  lay — was  one  of  that  rare  description 
which  indicated  great  firmness  of  character  combined  with 
gentleness  of  heart.  The  embrowned  cheeks  and  sternly  com 
pressed  lips  spoke  of  weary  wanderings  in  warmer  climes — of 
strife  and  toil.  But  the  deep,  quiet  intellect  of  the  brow,  with 
the  soft  and  almost  child-like  gleam  of  the  eye,  denoted  a  soul 
which  no  sorrow  or  suffering  could  change. 

Insensible  as  the  soldier  seemed,  he  had  well  marked  the  words 
of  the  f rater,  and  the  great  beauty  of  Sister  Bertha.  But 
the  recollection  of  both  was  soon  lost  in  the  delirium  which 
succeeded,  during  which  he  was  gently  and  softly  tended  by  her. 
Soon  he  raved — at  times  in  Flemish,  at  times  in  other  tongues, 
— of  strange  adventures  in  many  lands;  of  the  broad,  white- 
foaming  sea  with  its  ships,  which  swept  by  like  spirits  at  night 
fall  over  the  haunted  plain ;  of  the  storming  and  sacking  of  lordly 
cities  in  Italy;  of  the  screams  of  maidens,  the  burning  of 
churches,  and  of  the  red  gold  which  rolled  over  the  checkered 
pavement,  and  slipped  away  from  his  grasp  into  pools  of  blood ; 
of  silent  study  in  cloisters  far  away;  of  drinking  and  revelry 
and  dice ;  of  the  tinkling  of  mandolines,  and  the  warm  kisses 
of  beautiful  black-eyed  women;  of  glorious  paintings  with  gilded 
grounds;  of  malachite  vases,  ivory  crucifixes,  and  marble  palaces, 
on  whose  every  flight  of  broad  stairs  stood  the  cold,  white 
immortals ;  of  orange-groves  and  white  towers  reflected  in  the 
blue  sea  from  cliffs  whose  base  was  red  with  coral;  and  at 
he  would  burst  into  sinful  songs  and  wild  peals  of  laughter. 


LEGENDS    OF   FLEMISH   ART.  193 

Yet,  all  unmoved,  the  sweet  nun  sat  by  him,  moistening  his 
brow  with  water,  and  giving  utterance  to  deep  and  earnest 
prayers  for  the  health  of  body  and  soul.  When  his  speech 
became  wild  and  wicked,  she  would  lay  her  small  white  palm 
against  his  mouth  and  say,  "Peace,  poor  child,  peace!"  Then 
his  voice  would  sink  to  a  low  murmur,  like  the  distant  hum 
heard  afar  in  the  forest  when  the  storm-wind  has  passed  by, 
and,  with  tears,  he  would  half-unconsciously  join  in  her  prayer 
to  God. 

With  the  following  morning  the  effects  of  the  fever  had 
wellnigh  passed  away.  And  every  succeeding  day,  to  use  a 
Flemish  expression,  "  added  fresh  grapes  to  the  vintage  of  his 
health."  He  was  the  favourite  of  all  who  knew  him,  though  he 
very  seldom  spoke — he  was  so  quiet,  gentle,  and  uncomplaining. 
But,  for  hours  together,  he  would  fix  an  earnest  gaze  upon  the 
beautiful  eyes  of  Sister  Bertha,  whose  favourite  spot  for  needle 
work  or  prayer,  when  not  otherwise  engaged,  was  near  his  couch. 
To  her  quick  woman's  eye  it  was  evident  that  a  great  change 
was  coming  over  the  spirit  of  her  patient.  Her  silent  beauty 
had,  indeed,  touched  his  soul ;  and  deep  regrets  for  his  stormy, 
sinful  life  were  daily  mingled  with  the  aspirations  of  a  love 
deeper  and  holier  than  any  which  he  had  before  experienced. 

But  with  his  gradually-restored  health,  it  appeared  that  a 
time  was  not  far  distant  when  he  would  be  compelled  to  quit 
this  haven  of  rest.  More  than  one  broad  hint  had  been  dropped 
by  the  Ward-Master  and  unwillingly  repeated  even  by  Friar 
Jerome,  that  there  were  other  sick  in  the  world,  and  that  his 
couch  was  wanted.  More  than  once  had  an  assistant  inquired 
as  to  his  future  road,  and  begged  to  know  if  the  "  wander- 
penny,"  or  gratuity  usually  bestowed  on  those  leaving  the  hos 
pital,  should  be  taken  out  for  him.  Until  at  last,  one  morning 
summoning  the  Ward-Master,  he  said,  gravely  and  earnestly — 

"  Heer  Ward-Meijster,  it  little  beseems  me,  who  have  here 
experienced  at  your  hands  kinder  and  gentler  treatment  than  I 
have  ever  in  my  life  before  known,  to  crave  longer  lodgment 
than  is  my  due.  It  were  a  sin  if  the  good  Hospital  of  St.  John 
De  Bruges,  which  is  famed  for  kindness  and  charity  not  only 
throughout  the  Low  Countries  and  Germany,  but  even  unto 
Italy  and  the  Indies,  should  suffer  by  malapert  indolence.  You 
wish  me  forth — but  I  will  not  go  until  you  are  richly  rewarded 


194  SKETCH-BOOK    OF    ME,    MEISTER    KARL. 

for  your  kindness.  If  this  my  couch  be  needed,  give  me,  I  pray, 
another  room,  where  I  may  be  alone  and  unheeded  save  with 
some  slight  attendance;  and  if,  in  one  month's  time,  every  soul 
in  this  hospital,  with  yourself  at  the  head,  do  not  beseech  me  to 
remain,  I  give  ye  leave  to  drive  me  forth  like  a  thieving  knave, 
with  hounds  and  whips. 

To  this  modest  proposition  the  Heer  Ward-Master  willingly 
assented;  and,  that  very  day,  the  convalescent  was  removed  to  a 
distant  chamber,  where  he  dwelt  in  strict  privacy.  Only  the 
beautiful  Bertha,  his  kind  nurse,  approached  him,  or  seemed 
acquainted  with  the  nature  of  the  pursuit  in  which  he  was 
so  mysteriously  engaged.  By  her  he  was  silently  supplied 
with  all  that  he  required.  And  the  days  and  the  weeks 


"I  wonder,"  said  the  Ward-Master  one  evening  to  Brother 
Jerome,  "  on  what  work  the  stranger  hath  been  engaged. 
Doubtless  he  hath  but  rested  with  us  that  he  might  obtain 
longer  herbcrg,  (lodgings.)  But  let  him  go  in  peace." 

"  He  is,  perchance,  an  artist,"  replied  Brother  Jerome.  "  It 
remembereth  me  that  his  first  word  in  the  hospital  was  the 
motto  of  the  excellent  Johannes  van  Eyck.  But  nay — what 
artist  ever  dragged  himself  like  a  vagabond  soldier  to  these 
gates  ?" 

"Heaven  grant,"  replied  the  worthy  Ward-Master,  "that  he 
be  an  artist,  even  as  thou  sayest!  Ah,  Brother  Jerome,  the 
name  of  Van  Eyck  is  a  sore,  sore  theme  to  me !" 

The  Master  was  here  interrupted  by  the  beautiful  Bertha,  who 
bore  a  message  from  the  soldier. 

"He  desires,"  said  she,  "that  on  the  morrow,  you,  Heer 
Ward-Meijster,  assemble  the  chief  dignitaries  of  Bruges,  and 
repair  to  the  room  where  he  now  dwells." 

"  A  pretty  business,  indeed  !"  replied  the  Master.  "What! 
assemble  his  Highness  the  Lord-Governor,  with  my  worshipful 
goto!" 

"Nay,  but,  father,"  replied  the  maiden,  "it  must  be  even  as 
he  saith.  For  /  have  seen  that  which  he  proposeth  to  set  before 
you,  and  it  were  not  fit  that  lesser  eyes  should  be  the  first  to  gaze 
thereon!" 

"Then  it  shall  be  so,"  replied  the  Master;  "for  thou  art  a 
wise  and  discreet  maiden,  and  spcakest  well.  Therefore,  Bro- 


LEGENDS    OF   FLEMISH   ART.  195 

ther  Jerome,  bid  the  messenger  Lodewyk  summon  them,  even  as 
Sister  Bertha  directs." 

"Gentle  sirs/'  said  the  Ward-Master  on  the  following  morn 
ing — when  the  chief  noblemen  and  burghers  of  Bruges  had 
assembled — "if  that  which  ye  are  to  behold  should  prove  a  vain 
thing,  I  pray  ye  blame  me  not.  On  the  word  of  a  sister — albeit 
a  maiden  of  discretion — have  I  called  ye  hither.  Let  us  now 
judge  of  her  wisdom.'7 

With  these  words  he  opened  the  door  of  the  chamber  wherein 
the  soldier  lodged.  As  they  entered,  a  simultaneous  cry  of 
admiration  burst  from  the  lips  of  all  present.  Upon  a  high  easel 
was  placed  a  painting  the  like  of  which  no  man  there  present 
had  ever  seen  before,  though  there  were  those  among  them  who 
had  studied  Art  in  distant  lands.  It  was  an  altar-piece  in  three 
divisions,  the  principal  representing  the  marriage  of  St.  Kathe- 
rine  with  our  Lord.  In  the  centre  was  a  virgin  of  wondrous 
beauty,  seated  beneath  a  flowing  curtain,  while  over  her  floated 
two  lovely  angels  bearing  a  crown.  To  the  right  knelt  St.  Ka- 
therine  before  the  infant  Saviour,  who  placed  upon  her  finger 
the  betrothal  ring,  and  behind  her  an  angel,  more  beautiful  than 
the  light,  playing  upon  an  organ,  and  near  him,  John  the  Bap 
tist  leading  a  lamb.  Both  the  wings  were  filled  in  with  scriptu 
ral  figures — "the  whole  forming  a  work  deeply  inspired  with 
sweet,  mysterious,  soul-refining  poesy,  and  finished,  as  to  every 
mechanical  detail,  in  the  highest  style  of  Art  which  the  world 
had  then  beheld."* 

"But  where,"  inquired  the  Burgrave  Vander  Schilde,  "where 
is  the  artist  who  has  thus  combined  in  one  work  all  the  excel 
lence  of  the  Italian,  the  German,  and  Flemish  schools  of  this 
age  ?  Where  is  he,  who,  by  a  single  effort,  surpasses  all  that 
Johannes  van  Eyck,  our  Lord  of  Art,  hath  ever  done  ?" 

"Behold  him!"  said  Brother  Jerome,  leading  forth  the  sol 
dier,  who,  advancing  to  the  Ward-Meijster,  exclaimed — 

"Art  thou  now  satisfied,  good  sir,  for  the  soldier's  lodo;- 
'  mcnt?" 

"Oh,  my  friend — my  heart's  friend!"  replied  the  Master,  his 
eyes  dimmed  with  tears  of  joy,  "be  only  our  guest  forever.  No 
noble  shall  be  so  cared  for  as  thou.  But  oh ! — who  art  thou?" 


KUGLRII.     GeschicJite  der  Malerei,  vol.  ii.  p.  66. 
17* 


196  SKETCH-BOOK   OF    ME,    MEISTER    KARL. 

At  this  question  the  artist  pointed  to  the  edge  of  the  frame, 
on  which  was  seen  the  following  inscription : 

OPVS  .IOHANNIS.HEMLING 

DIT  '  WERCK  '  DEDE  •  MAKEN  •  IAN  •  HEMELING  •  VAN  •  DE  • 

HOSPITALE  '  VAN  •  SINT  '  IANS  •  IN  •  BRVGGHE  ' 

ANNO  '  MCCCCLXXIX  • 

(The  work  of  John  Hemling.  This  work  did  make  John 
Hemling,  of  the  Hospital  of  St.  John,  in  Bruges,  in  the  year 
1479.) 

"John  Hemling! — Hans  Hemling!"  exclaimed  the  Burgrave, 
with  astonishment.  "Why,  art  thou  not  he  who,  three  years 
since,  under  the  name  of  Giovanni  il  Flamingo,  didst  dis 
pute  so  learnedly  at  the  Universities  of  Padua,  Cracow,  and 
Heidelberg?" 

"Nay,"  replied  the  Count  Adolijn,  "art  thou  not,  rather,  he 
who,  as  Jean  le  Flamand,  didst  so  gallantly  discomfit  at  Calais, 
in  fair  duel,  the  roystering  English  blade,  Harry  Goreham, 
and  then  escape — albeit  from  the  very  midst  of  King  Edward's 
army?" 

"I  have  seen  thee  in  Venice,"  added  a  gray-bearded  Council 
man, — "and  in  those  days  thou  wert  the  featliest  gallant  that 
ever  wore  Genoa  velvet,  or  trod  corantos  with  the  blonde  Sioras 
of  the  Lagunas !" 

"Noble  sirs,"  replied  Hemling,  "it  matters  little  what  I  have 
been,  since  I  now,  thanks  to  St.  John !  am  that  no  longer.  Art 
and  Religion  shall  henceforward  alone  claim  me.  Of  you, 
worthy  Ward-Master,  I  crave  only  permission  to  tarry  here 
awhile  longer,  that  I  may  honour  yet  more,  with  my  poor  skill, 
the  kind  Hospital  of  St.  John,  where  I  have  so  greatly  benefited 
both  my  body  and  soul !" 

And  the  artist  remained — remained  to  paint  those  religious 
pictures  which  have  inspired  with  the  gentlest,  yet  the  most 
genial,  emotions  even  the  coldest  French  critics  of  this  century. 
Pictures  which  drew  from  Arsdne  Houssaye  the  confession  that 
"Corregio,  though  elevated  above  Hemling  in  grace  of  form, 
was  infinitely  beneath  him  in  expression;  and  that,  compared 
with  him  as  a  master  of  religious  Art,  Raphael  was  a  mere 


LEGENDS    OF    FLEMISH    ART.  197 

heathen,  who  beheld  only  a  Fornarina  beyond  the  grave  •"  and 
even  the  stern  and  accurate  Fortoul  declares  that,  if  ever  painter 
merited  the  honour  of  being  considered  as  a  privileged  interpreter 
of  Christianity,  this  was  the  man ;  and,  inspired  with  the  sub 
ject,  exclaims — " Pious  master!  by  exciting  in  the  depths  of 
my  heart  that  secret  sadness  which  comes  to  us  from  God,  and 
recalls  us  to  him,  thou  wert  the  first  to  make  me  feel  and  com 
prehend  Art !  Melancholy  star  of  my  youth !  thou  didst  guide 
me  in  my  travels  and  studies !  For  it  is  first  necessary  to  expe 
rience  grief  and  suffering,  and  then  resign  ourselves  to  repose,  to 
be  able  to  conform  ourselves  to  that  ideal  which  thou  hast  real 
ized  in  thy  calm  and  gentle  saints,  0  succouring  friend,  whom  I 
have  made  mine  for  time  and  for  eternity !" 

But  though  the  artist  painted  on  for  many  months  in  silence 
and  prayer,  his  mind  still  hovered  about  this  world.  In  all  of 
his  paintings  there  is  one  face  of  almost  unearthly  beauty,  yet 
calm  and  gentle  as  the  evening  breeze.  That  face  is  Bertha's — 
his  consoler — his  angel — his  love!  And,  in  nearly  every  paint 
ing,  he  was  wont  to  repeat  his  own  portrait,  attired,  not  in  the 
dark  gown  which  he  now  wore,  but  in  the  long  gaberdine  and 
crimson  velvet  bonnet  of  the  Florentines,  which  indicated  clearly 
to  the  good  Ward-Master  that  his  heart  yearned  again  for  the 
bright  skies  and  happy  scenes  of  Tuscany. 

Not  long  after  this  it  became  known  throughout  the  hospital 
and  town  that  Sister  Bertha  had,  by  especial  permission,  been 
secularized,  and  returned  to  the  world.  And  but  a  little  time 
elapsed  ere  Hemling  also  quietly  disappeared,  leaving,  as  a  last 
gift,  his  greatest  and  most  glorious  work — a  work  for  which 
kings  have  since  offered  their  gold  in  vain — the  Shrine  of 
St.  Ursula. 

And  whither  did  he  flee,  and  who  was  the  companion  of  his 
journey?  Never  again  on  earth  did  man  hear  of  Hemling,  the 
soldier-artist  of  Bruges,  or  of  Bertha  the  nun,  save  that  in  after 
years  there  appeared  in  Spain,  in  company  with  a  wife  of  won 
drous  beauty,  a  great  artist,  known  as  JUAN  FLAMENCO,  or 
John  the  Fleming,  whose  paintings  were  inspired  with  that 
strange,  unearthly  loveliness,  and  were  limned  in  the  same  sad, 
gentle  spirit  which  we  find  in  the  works  of  Hemling.  Nor  have 
those  been  wanting,  in  the  present  century,  who,  inspired  by 
the  saint-like  veneration  in  which  his  name  is  even  yet  held 


198  SKETCH-BOOK    OF    ME,    MEISTER    KARL. 

at  the  hospital,  have  more  than  intimated  that  an  unearthly 
mystery  hung  over  the  artist.  Of  late  years  the  initiated,  in  the 
school  of  Overbeck  at  Rome,  speak  admiringly  of  a  stranger  who 
sojourned  but  a  few  days  among  them,  and  astonished  all  by  his 
miraculous  familiarity  with  the  Art  and  artists  of  the  olden 
time.*  And  it  also  appears  from  more  than  one  ancient  chroni 
cle,  that  sixty  years  before  his  appearance  in  Bruges,  a  skilful 
painter  bearing  the  same  name  and  lineaments,  had  been  em 
ployed  as  architect  by  the  Cathedral  of  Bremen.  But  these 
questions  I  leave  to  the  seekers  into  the  marvels  of  antiquity. 
For  the  true  enthusiast  in  Art,  the  true  poet,  or  the  true  Chris 
tian,  who,  unheeding  of  name  or  sect,  breathes  forth  a  heartfelt 
prayer  each  night  to  God  that  his  spirit  of  gentleness,  of  love, 
of  beauty,  and  grace  may  be  poured  forth  over  all  men  and  in 
every  clime,  no  other  indication  of  the  supernatural  need  be 
given  save  that  which  beams  from  his  every  work,  and  inspires 
with  a  life  of  purity  and  holiness  their  every  feature. 


THE   FIRST   LOVE   OF   TENIERS. 

Zyn  schildcrkonst  bestont  in  snakory  en  boetzen, 
Die  by  zoo  geestig  \vist  met  zyn  penceel  te  toetzen 
Dat  niemand  zyns  gelyk,  in  deze  tyd  en  is 
Die't  werk  komt  over  een  met  zyn  gesteltenis. 
Hier  staat  een  lompe  boer  van  dronkenschap  te  spouwen, 
En't  wyf  met  eenen  stok  gereod  zyn  Imid  te  touwen, 
Daar  ziet  m'een  bootsgezel  met't  pintje-in  zyne  vuist, 
En  bier  een  feyenrot  die  met  do  kaarten  tuist. 

CORXILLE  DE  BlE. 

DAVID  TENIERS — the  younger  and  the  greater — was  born,  we 
are  told,  in  an  atelier,  and  drew  with  his  first  breath  the  inspira 
tion  of  Art.  It  was  in  this  atelier  that  his  father  found  him  one 


*  This  mysterious  stranger  of  1844  was  supposed  to  be  an  Englishman  or 
Swede.  There  is,  indeed,  a  second  curious  mystery  relative  to  Hemling, 
remaining  to  bo  solved.  Consult  the  "German  Chronicles"  of  MEXCKEJUUS, 
torn.  iii.  p.  806.  "  Quo  tempore,  (A.  D.  1420,)  D.  Johannes  Hemelingus  archi- 
tectus  capituli  Bremensis,  in  medio  choro  ecclesise  cathedralis  tumbain,  in  qua 
sex  reverendissimorum  arcluopiscopum  o.«sa  et  cinercs  conditi  orant,  levavit  et 
innovnvit." 


LEGENDS    OF    FLEMISH    ART.  199 

day,  while  but  an  infant  of  four  years,  sketching  with  comic 
gravity  a  tavern  scene ;  and  it  was  here  that  an  event  occurred 
which,  in  after  days,  led  the  way  to  that  train  of  circumstance 
which  formed  his  true  life. 

The  father  lay  sick  on  a  couch,  and  near  him  his  two  boys, 
David  and  Abraham,  were  busy  with  their  task,  each  seated  at 
an  easel.  Weary  with  pain  and  watching,  the  old  man  at  length 
composed  himself  to  sleep,  but  first  exclaimed — 

"It  is  well,  my  children;  very  well!  But  a  good  beginning 
is  not  always  a  lucky  ending;  therefore,  work  on  while  you  are 
in  the  vein.  And  if  a  visitor  enter,  notice  him  not;  for  the  true 
artist  knows  no  one  while  painting.  Therefore,  work !" 

The  old  man  slept,  and  no  sound  was  heard  in  the  quaint  old 
room  save  his  heavy  breathing,  the  occasional  quiet  purr  of  a  cat, 
and  the  ticking  of  an  old  clock,  on  whose  dial  was  inscribed  in 
Gothic  letters  that  inscription  which,  in  after  days,  was  applied 
by  more  than  one  writer  to  his  son : 

"IN  TENUI  LABOR,  ET  TENUIS  NON  GLORIA." 

Suddenly  the  curtain  which  hung  before  the  door  was  raised, 
and  a  cavalier,  magnificent  in  all  the  bravery  of  gold  chains, 
taffetas,  ermine,  and  jewelled  rapier,  entered,  and,  taking  off  a 
broad  Spanish  hat  with  drooping  plume,  exclaimed — 

"I  would  fain  see  mine  old  friend,  Teniers,  who  they  tell  me 
is  sick :  I  am  Rubens !" 

But  the  old  man  awoke  not,  and  the  ticking  of  the  clock  and 
the  purr  of  the  cat  were  the  only  sounds  heard  for  a  full  minute. 
For  the  boys,  mindful  of  their  father's  injunction,  made  no  re 
ply;  and  Abraham,  with  true  Flemish  gravity,  neither  turned 
his  head  nor  moved  a  feature.  But  David,  at  the  sound  of  that 
great  name,  felt  his  heart  throb  with  emotion;  his  eyes  filled 
with  tears,  and,  dropping  his  brush,  he  gazed  with  wonder  and 
reverence  on  one  whom  he  now,  for  the  first  time,  beheld,  and 
who  had  ever  seemed  to  him  living  only  in  the  world  of  Art  as 
the  king  and  ruler  of  that  world. 

"  Children,  are  ye  dumb  ?"  exclaimed  Rubens.  And  approach 
ing  David,  he  gazed,  for  a  time,  upon  his  half-finished  sketch,  and 
while  the  boy  bashfully  drew  aside,  remarked,  with  a  smile, 
"Well  may  the  child  be  dumb  who  can  speak  in  such  language 
as  this !  Boy,  boy,  keep  on  as  thou  hast  begun,  and  I  promise 


200  SKETCH-BOOK    OF    ME,    MEISTER    KARL. 

thee   that  the  man  is  not  born  who   can    surpass  thee    in  thy 
school — the  school  of  Flemish  life!" 

And  taking  with  his  own  hand  the  pencil  from  the  floor,  he 
begun  to  retouch  and  colour  the  sketch  of  the  boy,  giving  him, 
at  the  time,  instructions.  Not  a  single  touch  was  without  mean 
ing,  for  the  boy  was  ripe  beyond  his  years,  and  not  a  maxim  or 
precept  was  ever,  in  after  years,  forgotten;  so  that  at  a  later  day 
he  said  with  justice  to  himself,  "I  derived  my  genius  from. 
Nature,  my  taste  from  my  father,  and  the  perfection  of  both 
from  Rubens."* 

Years  passed  by,  and  the  boy  grew  up  a  true  artist — bold,  ad 
venturous,  and  reckless.  Nor  was  his  life  solely  of  the  atelier. 
"At  fifteen  years,"  says  the  naive  DESCAMPS,  "he  was  of  great 
assistance  to  his  father,  for  he  went,  with  a  donkey,  to  sell  his 
pictures  at  Brussels  or  Amsterdam."  As  he  grew  older,  these 
journeys  were  for  himself;  they  were  prolonged,  home  was  for 
gotten,  and  in  wild  adventure  and  travel  he  saw  and  suffered 
much.  But  it  was  not  poverty  which  vexed  him,  though  he 
often  rose  without  bread;  but  his  inability  to  determine  on  that 
style  most  suitable  to  his  abilities.  Weary  of  indecisions,  he  re 
solved  on  a  visit  to  Rubens.  And  this,  wotfore  told,  was  in  his 
twentieth  year. 

"Ah,  my  boy-painter,  art  thou  there  again!"  exclaimed  Ru 
bens  kindly,  as  the  name  of  Teniers  was  announced.  "And 
even  yet  a  boy,  but  what  a  change !  Poor  soul !  thy  features  and 
dress  speak  of  sad  changes  and  stormy  days,  both  within  and 
without.  And  where  will  all  this  close?  Men  say  that  thou 
flittest  in  one  day  from  heaven  to  the  tavern  and  kcrmcsse,  and 
that  the  morning's  sketch  of  a  holy  family  is  retouched,  ere 
eventide,  into  a  rustic  bocrsvrow  writh  her  child.  Nay,"  he  con 
tinued,  observing  the  deep  sigh  which  Teniers  sent  forth,  "show 
me  thy  sketches." 

And  with  these  words,  he  took  from  the  young  artist  his  port 
folio,  and  with  the  eye  of  a  master  glanced  over  its  contents. 

"ITcm!  That  is  well  drawn — that  priest;  only  it  seemeth  me 
that  he  more  resembles  a  jolly,  tipsy  hedge-Capuchin,  than  a  grave 
Benedictine,  albeit  he  bears  all  the  traits  of  the  latter." 


*  He  is,  however,  justly  blamed  by  Houssaye  for  omitting  from  this  list  the 
name  of  the  humble  BRAWEII. 


XEGENDS    OF    FLEMISH    ART.  201 

And  here  Rubens,  who  was  proud  of  his  learning,  and  loved 
to  quote  Latin,  repeated,  in  a  ringing  voice,  the  popular  descrip 
tion  of  a  Benedictine,  as  subsequently  incorporated  into  that  rare 
and  wicked  little  book,  the  MONACHOLOGIA  of  JOHANNES  PHY- 
SIOPHILUS  :  "  Monachus  Bcncdictinus ;  imberbis;  capite  tonsoy 
setoso,  corolla  lineari  sulcato :  pedibus  calceatis;  ano  caligato; 
veste  nigra,  lanea,  corpus  totum  et  pcdes  circumambiente  ;  cucidlo 
lavo,  subrotundo,  lato ;  scapular i pendido,  latitudine  abdominis; 
collari  rigido,  albo}  cmarginato;  cingulo  lato,  laneo,  aut  holo- 
serico;  pallio  nigro  descendente  usque  ad  talos." 

"Thou  seost,  Teniers,"  continued  he,  laughing,  "that  I  know 
Latin  and  a  priest,  as,  in  good  faith,  should  every  artist;  and 
chiefly  when  he  wanders,  like  thee,  in  search  of  bread  and  Truth. 
And  now  tell  me,  my  child,  why  wilt  thou  thus  fight  against 
nature,  and  seek  a  style  and  a  name  in  this  valley  and  on  that 
mountain,  when  thy  path  lies  broad  and  straight  before  thee? 
Why  not  make  of  thy  Benedictine  a  tipsy  hedge-priest,  if  thou 
wilt?  And  why  hast  thou  feared  to  follow  the  old  manner  of 
thy  father?  Ah,  boy,  remember  the  old  Flemish  rhyme,  and 
keep  to  TENIERS  : — 

Die  vadcr  sprac  tot  sinen  soon  met  liste  : 

Die  vader  totten  sane  sprac  : 
Wi  icillcn  ons  f/helt  vertercn, 

Ende  houden  ons  gliemac. 

And  the  father  he  wisely  spoke  to  the  son, 

And  thus  to  the  son  spoke  he  : 
We  will  feast  with  our  gold,  as  we  ever  have  done, 

And  merry  our  life  shall  be  !" 

"But,  fair  sir,"  replied  Teniers,  "I  have  deemed  at  times 
that  I  might,  perchance,  at  some  day,  become  not  only  a  good 
painter,  but  also  a  great  one — great  like  thyself  and  MIJN  HEEII 
VAN  DYCK;  and  the  road  to  such  greatness  lies  not  through 
village  fairs  and  groups  of  gabbling  friars  or  tipsy  peasants/' 

"  Oh,  my  boy,  my  boy !"  replied  the  kind  artist.  "  How  far 
hast  thou  wandered,  and  how  little  hast  thou  advanced  !  Know- 
est  thou  not  that  it  is  not  only  in  the  depicting  of  virgins  and 
angels,  gods  and  mighty  kaisers,  that  greatness  lies  for  us  poor 
mortals?  The  loftiest  subject,  the  noblest  theme  cannot  create 
genius;  but  a  genius  like  thine  can  bring  greatness  in  full  mea 
sure  from  the  low,  the  humble,  wherever  life  lies;  be  it  the  life 


202  SKETCH-BOOK    OF    ME,    MEISTER   KARL. 

of  man,  or  that  of  the  great  omnipresent  soul  of  God  and 
Nature."* 

It  was  by  such  counsels  that  Rubens  gradually  led  young 
Teniers  back  to  that  which  Schiller  gives  as  advice  to  every  one : 
"Keep  true  to  the  dream  of  thy  youth/'  A  new  life  of  peace 
and  serenity,  of  inspiration  and  happiness,  seemed,  from  this  day, 
to  dawn  upon  him,  and  he  began  in  the  atelier  of  Hubens  to 
paint  as  he  had  never  before  done. 

And  it  happened,  on  a  day,  that  the  Archduke  Leopold  paid 
one  of  his  accustomed  visits  to  Rubens.  Suddenly,  on  hearing 
the  great  painter  address  his  pupil  by  name,  the  archduke 
turned,  and  said,  with  a  smile — 

"Art  thou,  then,  David  Teniers,  the  merry  artist  of  Antwerp? 
Soo  dat  gaet  wel — it  is  well !  It  was  but  the  last  week  that  I 
heard  the  SIEUR  GRAEF  PE  EGLENTIER  vow  that  if  he  ever 
found  thee,  he  would  give  thee  a  welcome  bekcr  of  wine,  and  a 
picture  to  paint  at  thine  own  price.  The  whole  in  memory  and 
honour  of  an  ancient  jest,  long  since  departed. 

"  And  may  I  know,  your  highness,  the  cause  of  this  great 
honour?"  inquired  Teniers. 

"Tut,  man !  no  such  mighty  honour,  either,  for  one  so  much  at 
home  among  painting  and  wine-pots  as  thou  art,"  replied  the 
duke.  "A  good  drinker  deserves  a  good  bottle,  saith  our  Fle 
mish  proverb.  Aen  eencn  goeden  drinckcbroer  behoort  gocde  flcs. 
Thou  knowest  the  valiant  drunkard,  ADRIEN  BRAWER,  whom  I 
did  lately  harbour  for  certain  days  in  my  palace,  to  the  imminent 
peril  of  my  chambermaids  and  wine-flagons?  Well! — Brawer 
set  forth  one  day  to  the  Graef  de  Eglentier,  how  he,  when  a  great 
ragged  boy  of  eighteen,  did  once  meet  in  the  country  a  little  lad 
younger  than  himself,  leading  to  Brussels  an  ass  laden  with  pic 
tures.  "Whither  goes  the  donkey?"  inquired  Brawer.  "He 
travels  thy  road — the  one  which  all  you  jackasses  take/'  replied  the 
lad.  And  so  charmed  was  ragged  Adrien  at  the  spiritual  grace 
of  this  answer,  that  he  at  once  joined  company  with  the  little 
lad,  and  even  nobly  permitted  him  to  pay  his  lodgment  and  food 
for  several  days.  Teniers — thou  wert  the  boy !" 


*  "  Ou  bien,  en  crdant  ce  pompeur  poeme  de  la  chair,  du  mouvoment  et  du 
bruit,  oil  la  nature  s'elcve  si  haut  qu'elle  parvient  jusqu'a  voiler  leciel,  Rubens 
obeissait-il  a  sa  nature  toute  pantheiste?"— ARSKNE  HOUSSAYE. 


LEGENDS    OF    FLEMI8H    ART.  203 

"Yea,"  replied  Teniers,  laughing,  "and  well  do  I  remember 
how  valiantly  Adrien  plied  the  beer-can,  until  never  a  penny 
danced  in  ray  pocket !  But  I  learned  many  a  good  lesson  from 
the  knave,  and  cheaply  enough  I  won  them/' 

"Thou  art  a  brave  youth,  David  Teniers/'  replied  the  duke, 
kindly,  "and  wert  born  to  be  a  gentleman.  I  would  have  fain 
retained  thine  old  comrade,  Brawer,  about  my  court;  but  the 
first  night  he  lay  drunk  in  a  churchyard;  the  second,  in  a  wine 
shop;  and  the  third,  did  make  such  furious  riot  in  his  own  rooms, 
that  I  was  obliged  on  the  fourth  to  give  him  congt.  But  thou 
art  of  gentler  nature  and  better  nurture.  What  sayest  thou, 
Rubens  ? — shall  I  take  this  youngling,  on  thy  word,  as  first  gen 
tleman  of  my  chamber  ?" 

"On  my  word  and  faith,  you  may,  your  highness,"  replied 
Rubens.  "No  better  youth  could  be  found  in  the  wide  world 
than  David  for  the  service  you  give  him." 

It  was  thus,  reader,  (for  all  his  early  biographers  tell  the  same 
tale,)  that  David  Teniers  first  rose  in  this  wicked  world.  Nor 
was  the  Graef  de  Eglentier  forgteful  of  his  promise ;  for,  on  the 
following  day,  he  summoned  Teniers,  and  said — 

"I  have  promised  to  pay  thee  thine  own  price  for  a  picture, 
and  will.  But  the  subject  is  no  easy  one.  In  a  few  weeks  I 
shall  be  married,  and  will  have  a  picture  of  Hymen.  Many  a 
portraiture  of  this  fair  god  of  Marriage  have  I  seen,  but  none  fair 
enough — none  which  did  justice  to  the  infinite  and  exquisite 
beauty  of  wedded  life  with  her  whom  we  love." 

"Ey!"  thought  Teniers,  "this  is  all  well  for  one  who  hath 
never  tried  the  rosy  chains :  but  what  saith  the  Italian  proverb 
which  my  father  taught  me  ? — 

Chi  non  Jia  moc/lie  ben  la  veste  ; 

Chi  non  ha  figlnoli  ben  li  pasce. 

Well  doth  the  man  unmarried  clothe  his  wife, 

And  well  the  childless  forms  his  children's  life. 

"Herr  Graef,"  replied  he,  "your  orders  shall  be  obeyed,  and 
I  will  employ  all  the  poor  skill  which  God  and  my  small  learning 
have  given  me  to  paint  the  fairest  form  which  ever  came  from 
my  pencil." 

On  the  marriage  eve,  Teniers  placed  before  the  Graef  de 
Eglentier  a  painting  in  which  bloomed  all  the  beauty  of  his  fancy 
and  genius.  "He  had  imitated,"  says  the  chronicler,  "the 

13 


204  SKETCH-BOOK    OF    ME,    MEISTER    KARL. 

graces  of  Correggio  and  the  colour  of  Titian.  He  had  made 
Hymen  fair  as  the  antique  Adonis ;  for  never  were  such  sweet 
outlines  illumined  by  a  more  fascinating  smile.  Nor  had  he 
forgotten  the  torch ;  and  no  flambeau  of  Love  had  ever  rayed 
forth  a  lovelier  light." 

But  the  count  gazed  upon  it  with  a  discontented  air,  and  ex 
claimed — 

"  This  may  perhaps  be  thy  idea,  and  that  of  the  dull  world's, 
who  know  nothing  of  the  true  charms  of  marriage.  Poor  crea 
tures  !  But,  frankly,  it  seemes  me  that  the  ineffable  charm,  the 
thrilling  fascination,  which  I  attach  to  the  charms  of  Hymen,  is 
entirely  wanting  in  thy  picture." 

Already  had  Teniers  become  a  courtier,  and  tact  he  had  from 
Nature.  With  a  quiet  smile,  he  replied — 

"My  lord,  you  are  right;  for,  when  I  reflect  on  the  miraculous 
beauty  of  your  young  bride,  and  the  rich  promise  of  the  lasting 
bliss  which  your  marriage  holds  forth,  I  shame  me  of  this  dull 
attempt.  However,  I  will  try  to  retouch  my  picture,  and  it  may 
be  that  in  remembering  your  lady's  beauty  I  may  receive  the 
inspiration  needed." 

The  count  consented,  and.  went  forth.  His  lady-love,  we  are 
told,  "was  Flemish  by  birth,  but  of  Spanish  origin,  and  endowed 
with  a  rare  beauty,  worthy  of  the  pencils  of  Murillo  and  Rubens." 
But,  despite  her  beauty,  even  on  the  third  day  after  the  nuptials 
she  was  a  little  less  fascinating;  and  when,  at  the  conclusion  of 
five  months,  Teniers  brought  back,  untouched,  the  portrait  of 
Hymen,  it  was  with  a  quiet  smile  which  indicated  more  than  a 
mere  knowledge  of  Art. 

"By  Our  Lady!"  exclaimed  the  Graef  de  Eglentier,  "  thou 
hast  indeed  marvellously  embellished  the  picture,  and  gone  far 
.beyond  my  beau  ideal  of  Hymen.  He  is  a  thousand  times  more 
smiling,  livelier,  and  more  graceful  than  before.  But,  still, 
Teniers,  you  have  not  exactly  comprehended  Hymen  as  /under 
stand  him.  You  have  made  him  rather  a  Love,  than  the  sober 
god  of  Marriage.  There  should  be  a  quieter — perhaps  a  little 
sadder — expression  in  his  air : — in  short,  this  picture  no  more 
pleases  me  than  did  the  first." 

"Sir  count,"  replied  Teniers,  "know  that  it  is  not  my  picture 
which  has  changed,  but  your  own  soul.  That  which  was  too  little 
for  the  ardent  lover  is,  I  perceive,  too  much  for  the  fickle  husband  " 


LEGENDS    OF   FLEMISH    ART.  205 

"Nay,  by  Heaven!"  exclaimed  the  graef,  "for  the  honour  of 
iny  lady,  this  is  too  much !  Take  the  gold,  and  leave  thy  picture, 
Teniers.  I  cancriticise  thy  pictures,  but  am  no  match  for  thee 
in  bandying  words." 

"With  your  leave,  sir  count,  replied  Teniers,  "I  will  not  leave 
the  picture.  Grant  me  but  a  few  days  still,  and  if  you  do  not 
profess  yourself  satisfied  with  what  I  then  produce,  call  me  the 
veriest  charlatan  in  Art  living." 

With  these  words,  Teniers  again  sought  his  atelier,  and  soon 
produced  a  curiosity  in  Art  which,  according  to  the  praises  lavish 
ed  thereon  by  contemporary  writers,  must  have  been  unrivalled. 
Seen  from  a  distance,  it  appeared  charming;  but  on  approaching 
it,  the  features  became  sombre,  sedate,  cold,  and  even  harsh,  when 
viewed  very  closely.  The  history  of  this  "  philosophic  picture" 
having  been  reported  to  the  archduke,  he  purchased  it  for  his 
gallery,  and,  to  use  the  words  of  DUFRESNEY,  "placed  it  at  the 
end  of  a  gallery,  in  a  sort  of  alcove.  To  ascend  to  this  alcove, 
it  was  necessary  to  mount  a  very  slippery  stair,  before  attaining 
which  the  picture  appeared  charming,  but  once  crossed,  lost  all 
its  charms." 

CORNILLE  SCHUT,  the  Artist-Poet,  is  the  first  who  narrates  this 
story. 

From  this  he  gives  us  a  second  narration,  explaining  the  sin 
gular  influence  which  this  very  picture  subsequently  had  upon 
the  life  and  fortunes  of  Teniers. 

One  of  the  most  beautiful  and  accomplished  maidens  who 
graced,  at  this  time,  with  her  presence  the  court  of  the  Arch 
duke  Leopold,  was  ANNE  BREUGHEL,  daughter  of  the  celebrated 
painter,  VELVET  BREUGHEL,  who,  at  his  decease,  had  left  her, 
with  a  large  fortune,  to  the  joint  guardianship  of  Cornille  Schut, 
Rubens,  and  Van  Balen.*  Under  the  conduct  of  Cornille  Schut, 
with  whom  she  resided,  Anne  frequently  made  little  excur 
sions  in  the  country  or  walks  in  the  city.  One  day,  her  guardian 
led  her  through  the  ducal  gallery  to  view  the  new  picture  of 
Hymen,  near  which,  as  they  approached,  Van  Balen  beheld 
Teniers  himself,  and  presented  him  in  due  form  to  Anne.  At 


*  The  reader  versed  in  Art  will  remember  VAN  BALEK  as  a  painter  whose 
style  exhibits,  to  a  remarkable  degree,  the  study  and  influence  of  the  Venetian 
school. 


206  SKETCH-BOOK    OF    ME,    MEISTER    KARL. 

this  instant,  according  to  Schut,  who  was  present,  the  young 
couple  stood  "on  this  side  of  the  slippery  and  perilous  step." 
After  a  few  words  on  the  weather,  on  sunshine,  music,  and  paint 
ing,  Anne  glanced  at  the  Hymen,  and  Teniers  exclaimed — 

"Lady,  would  it  please  you  to  pass  with  my  aid  this  step?" 

"Oh,  certainly,"  replied  Anne,  (her  chronicler  adds,  in  good- 
humoured  roguery,  "She  said  this, perhaps,  without  reflecting.") 

"I  take  you  at  your  word,"  replied  Teniers,  and  gallantly 
extended  his  hand.  But  the  young  maiden  blushed,  though 
hardly  in  anger,  and  refused  the  proffered'  aid.  Cornille 
Schut  smiled,  and  speaking  rather  as  a  friend  than  a  guardian, 
exclaimed — 

"  But  Anne,  my  child,  why  wilt  thou  not  pass  the  step?" 

"Nay,"  she  answered,  "and  why  should  I,  since,  on  the  other 
side,  the  lovely  picture  loses  all  its  charms?" 

Teniers  felt  his  heart  throb  and  pulse  beat  at  these  words,  and, 
half  unconscious  of  his  boldness,  exclaimed — 

"It  may,  indeed,  change  to  others;  but  for  you  and  me,  lady, 
never!" 

And  overcome  by  the  confession,  he  saluted  Anne  gracefully, 
and  went  hastily  forth.  And  Anne  looked  on  the  ground  and 
blushed,  and  spoke  of  other  matters. 

But  old  Cornille  Schut  smiled  meaningly. 

The  next  morning  Teniers  entered,  with  a  faltering  step,  the 
large  antique  study  where,  amid  all  the  apparatus  of  an  artist, 
sat  the  old  poet,  painting  a  cameo-picture  in  a  wreath  of  flowers, 
by  Seghers. 

"  Master  Cornille,"  exclaimed  Teniers,  "  I  pray  you  tell  me 
how  a  lady's  love  may  be  most  readily  won?" 

"By  verses,  my  son;  sweet  verses  of  love.  Tell  her  that  thou 
diest  in  despair,  and  that  thou  wilt  leave  home  and  life  for  her 
sake — 

Wei  over  der  heiden,  icel  over  den  sant, 

Met  droeviger  Jiert  ende  sinnen  ; 
Wei  mack  ick  yhcwinnen  het  vaderlant, 

Maer  trouwe  liefde  noit  ghewinne>t. 


Well  over  the  heather,  well  over  the  sand, 

With  sorrowful  heart  I  rove  ; 
Oh !  well  may  I  win  me  a  fatherland, 

But  never  the  maid  I  love. 


LEGENDS    OF    FLEMISH    ART.  207 

Then  the  maiden  will  pity  thee,  (mine  ever  did;)  and  after  a 
little  blushing  and  a  little  hesitation,  she  will  sing  thee  merrily 
back —  / 

And  go  if  thou  wilt  over  heather  and  dale, 

And  wander  through  valley  and  plain; 
But  ever  shalt  know  from  the  nightingale, 

That  thy  lily-bell  loves  thee  again !  / 

"Ah,  Master  Cornille!"  replied  Teniers,  "  could  I  make  verses 
like  yours,  I  might  well,  indeed,  be  sure  of  winning  every 
maiden's  heart.  But  though  I  am  in  love,  as  the  archduke  says, 
'like  a  madman/  I  can  never  hope  to  win  the  love  of  the  wealthy 
Anne  Breughel/' 

"Whew — w!"  whistled  Master  Cornille;  " are  you  there,  my 
bird  ?  Well,  I  am  not  the  sole  tutor  of  Anne ;  she  hath  yet 
twain.  If  they  say  naught,  then  am  I  not  against  you ;  but  I 
warn  you,  my  young  springal,  that  our  wills  united  will  never 
bend  Anne.  Ah,  she  would  have  her  own  way  an'  it  rained 
thorns !" 

From  the  atelier  of  Schut,  Teniers  went  to  that  of  Rubens. 
"  My  best  friend  and  master,"  he  exclaimed,  "  tell  me,  I  pray, 
how  one  may  win  a  maiden's  love?" 

"By  painting  a  portrait  which  sets  forth  her  charms  and  for 
gets  her  defects ;  a  portrait  which  proclaims  to  the  world  her 
beauty  and  your  own  genius,"  replied  the  enthusiast  in  Art; 
"  for  thus,  in  one  work,  both  are  elevated.  And  not  merely  in 
canvass  or  marble  can  this  be  done,"  continued  the  all-accom 
plished  and  ready-witted  painter:  "let  every  word  which  you 
speak  in  her  praise  to  others  be  a  reflected  portrait  of  her  perfect- 
ness,  and  bear  the  impress  of  your  own  wit  and  talents,  as  if  in 
spired  solely  by  her." 

"Ah,  that  I  had  your  skill  in  painting,  either  by  words  or  on 
canvass!"  sighed  Teniers.  "But  what  skill  could  ever  add  to  the 
charms  of  Anne  Breughel?" 

"Ey  Scheppcr!"  laughed  Rubens,  on  hearing  the  last  word. 
"Blows  the  wind  in  that  quarter?  Well,  well!  '  Een  vrome 
vrouwe  is  een  groat  god,' — 'A  good  wife  is  the  best  of  goods,' 
saith  our  Flemish  byword ;  and  of  all  good  wives,  I  believe  that 
the  world  has  none  better  than  Anne  Breughel.  But  go  and 
ask  her  grave  old  guardian,  VAN  BALEN — he  whom  they  call 
the  philosopher.  Perhaps  he  can  cite  thee  from  Plato,  or 

18* 


208  SKETCH-BOOK    OF    ME,    MEISTER    KARL. 

Domenic  of  Flanders,  some  right  reverend  old  texts  on  the  sub 
ject.     For  myself,  Heaven  help  me  to  aid  thee  !" 

Teniers  found  Van  Balen  in  his  study,  copying  on  copper  his 
great  picture  of  St.  John  preaching  in  the  wilderness.  "  Meijster 
Van  Balen,"  he  said,  "I  pray  you,  of  your  wisdom,  give  me  this 
advice  :  Ho'w  may  man  best  win  the  love  of  woman  V 

The  old  painter  glanced  up  kindly  from  his  work  to  the  hand 
some  features  and  downcast  eyes  of  Teniers  as  he  held  in  his 
hands  the  looped  hat  with  its  long  white  plume,  and  replied — 

"Credo  cxpcrto  Roberto,  trust  to  experience,  my  son,  and  be 
lieve  that  I  speak  the  truth  when  I  tell  thee  that  the  best  way  to 
win  a  maiden's  love  is  to  love  her  again  with  all  thy  heart  and 
soul;  and  deem  not,  as  many  foolish  men  have  said,  that  he  who 
loves  truly,  loves  at  a  disadvantage.  Such  counsels  aye  come 
from  the  meddling  and  hard-hearted,  who  would  faiu  know  as 
much  of  others'  hearts  as  of  their  own.  Plus  in  alieno  qudm  in 
suo  ncgotio  vident  homines." 

"Then  I  should  be  loved  by  Anne  Breughel,"  replied  Teniers, 
for  I  love  her  to  death ;  and  yet  much  I  fear  me  that  my  hasty 
rudeness  even  at  the  first  interview  did  banish  all  kindness  for 
me  from  her  heart." 

"Amantium  irse  amor  is  redintegratio  cst — l  The  anger  of  lovers 
is  but  a  renewal  of  love,'  replied  the  good  old  philosopher,  smiling. 
"Well,  I  will  see  Anne,  and  think  it  over,  my  young  friend." 

Many  and  weighty  were  the  deliberations  which  took  place  be 
tween  the  three  guardians,  while  Teniers  and  Anne  wisely  spent 
the  time  in  wooing.  Nor  was  it  until  a  certain  evening,  at  a 
splendid  supper  in  the  house  of  Rubens,  that  the  young  couple 
learned  the  decision  of  the  elders.  Teniers  was  to  receive  the 
hand  of  Anne ;  but  as  she  was  an  heiress,  the  marriage  contract 
was  drawn  entirely  in  her  favour,  reserving  for  herself  and  future 
children  not  only  all  her  own  property,  but  securing,  in  the  event 
of  her  death,  all  their  joint  property  to  the  offspring. 

The  marriage  took  place,  and  for  several  years  the  pair  con 
tinued  to  inhabit  the  ducal  palace.  But  then  Teniers,  who 
longed  to*  rival  the  great  artist-lords  of  that  day,  bought  an  ancient 
Gothic  castle,  situated  near  Antwerp — an  edifice  which  was,  we 
are  told,  worthy  of  an  artist. 

This  castle  has  been  preserved  for  us  of  the  present  day,  in  all 
its  purity,  in  many  of  the  paintings  of  its  master.  Tt  is  the 


LEGENDS    OF    FLEMISH    ART.  209 

centre  of  a  beautiful  sunny  scene,  inspired  with  rural  poetry  and 
romance.  "It  became/'  adds  a  biographer  of  Teniers,  "one  of 
the  most  splendid  rendezvous  for  hunting.  The  Archduke  Leo 
pold,  the  Prince  of  Orange,  the  Duke  of  Marlborough,  the  Bishop 
of  Ghent,  Don  John  of  Austria,  and  many  other  illustrious  in 
dividuals,  were  frequently  honoured  by  becoming  the  guests  of 
their  still  more  illustrious  artist.  Don  John  became  his  scholar 
and  intimate  friend ;  for  Teniers  was  celebrated  not  only  in  France 
and  Holland.  The  Queen  Charlotte  of  Sweden  wrote  to  him, 
and  sent  him  her  portrait  'en  meda-ille,'  adorned  with  precious 
stones. " 

Twice  was  Teniers  nearly  ruined  by  his  lordly  life,  and  each  time 
did  he  again  win  his  way  to  wealth.  The  first  calamity  he  made  up 
by  work — hard,  unflinching  industry.  He  did  not  sell  a  single 
horse,  nor  dismiss  even  a  footboy;  and  his  royal  guests  found 
nothing  in  his  menage  which  could  lead  them  to  suspect  for  an 
instant  that  they  were  not  in  the  palace  of  a  millionaire.  It  was 
at  night,  when  all  deemed  him  asleep,  that  he  worked,  and  thus 
produced,  we  are  assured,  in  one  year,  three  hundred  and  fifty 
pictures. 

Thus,  for  a  time,  was  peace  and  comfort  re-established.  Anne 
was  ever  the  same  kind  and  loving  wife,  his  children  smiled 
around  him,  and  all  seemed  happy.  But  his  extensive  industry 
had  overstocked  the  market ;  every  dealer  had  in  his  hands  the 
pictures  of  Teniers;  every  gallery  was  filled  with  them.  It  is 
said  that  Teniers  remedied  this  difficulty  by  one  of  those  ruses 
which,  in  his  day,  were  highly  applauded.  He  feigned  death ; 
a  tomb  was  erected  in  his  garden,  and  Anne  appeared  clad  in 
mourning.  So  well  was  the  comedy  played,  that  the  expected 
denouement  at  length  arrived.  His  pictures  were  quadrupled  in 
value,  and  Teniers  at  length  rose  from  the  dead  to  ease  and  opu 
lence.  But  Houssaye  indignantly  refutes  the  story,  as  unworthy 
of  Teniers  and  impossible  of  Anne.  We  prefer,  ourselves,  to 
believe  that  the  tale  originated  simply  from  the  withdrawing 
from  sale,  or  ceasing  for  a  given  time  to  supply  the  dealers  with 
his  pictures. 

Many  of  the  scenes  of  the  lordly  life  which  Teniers  led  in  this 
Castle  of  the  Three  Towers  are  chronicled  in  his  paintings.  In 
one,  we  see  him  on  a  splendid  terrace  with  his  family.  "His 
dress  is  a  mixture  of  the  Flemish  and  Spanish,  and  he  plays  the 


210  SKETCH-BOOK    OF    ME,    MEISTER    KARL. 

violoncello  with  grace,  while  Anne  Breughel  opens  before  him  a 
music-book."  Abraham,  his  brother,  wrapped  in  his  cloak,  a 
broad  hat  proudly  slouched  across  his  head,  observes  them;  while 
around  play  his  children,  beautiful  as  the  day.  On  the  wall 
climbs  a  monkey,  appearing  to  listen  to  the  music  as  if  fasci 
nated.  In  this  picture,  Anne  is  very  simply  clothed ;  her  hair 
falls  in  graceful  wavelets,  a  rose  is  at  her  waist,  and  on  her  fea 
tures  play  a  soft  and  tender  smile — the  smile  of  a  mother. 

They  lived  long  together,  but  never  went  beyond  the  slippery 
stair.     For  them,  Hymen  was  always  beautiful — • 

And,  reader  mine,  whate'er  betide, 
I  wish  the  same  to  thee. 


THE  LAST  LOVE  OF  TENTERS. 

Quien  quiere  amor  descifrar 
Engana  su  fantasia; 
Descifrar,  amor,  seria 
Medir  las  aguas  del  mar  ; 
Mas  si  so  quiere  expresar 
De  esta  pasion  el  ardor, 
Que  nadie  tenga  valor 
Para  haoerlo,  no  me  espanto 
Si  yo  sabiendo  amar  tanto 
No  se  descifrar  amor. 

DON  JUAN  RODRIGUEZ   CALDERON. 

THE  love  of  early  youth  is  like  the  bright,  glowing  morning- 
aurora — we  gaze  gladly  on  it,  not  only  for  its  beauty,  but  because 
it  makes  us  happy  in  the  hope  of  a  brilliant  day.  But  the  love 
of  riper  years  is  dear  to  our  soul,  for  in  it,  as  in  the  heavenly 
evening-red,  we  recall  the  gleam  and  glory  of  a  time  now  past 
and  gone. 

Half  of  all  that  we  admire  or  love  in  this  world,  after  attain 
ing  the  age  of  reflection,  owes  its  charm  to  association — associa 
tion  often  dim,  uadefinable,  and  even  forgotten.  How  many  a 
bright  eye,  or  soul-stirring  gleam  of  expression,  puzzles  us  at  the 
first  glance  even  more  than  it  charms,  because  we  cannot,  at  the 
instant,  recall  whence  or  where,  in  the  same  or  another  form,  it 
first  attracted  us. 

And  it  is  precisely  this  inability  to  recall  the  first  original  form 


LEGENDS   OF   FLEMISH   ART.  211 

— the  far-flown  beautiful  spectre — which  confers  an  attraction  or 
lends  an  indefinable  grace  and  mystery  to  that  which  we  now  ad 
mire.  How  many  a  bar  of  music,  sadly,  spiritually  sweet,  has 
thus  floated  to  the  inner  penetralia  of  our  heart,  borne  on  wings 
not  its  own !  How  many  a  smile  has  cast  the  light  of  heaven 
into  the  darkest  chamber  of  thy  soul,  whose  first  forgotten  radi 
ance  was  enkindled,  it  may  be,  by  some  young,  beauty  of  other 
lauds  and  times,  now  dead  or  passed  away  forever  !  How  many 
a  poem  would  vanish  unheeded,  did  not  its  rhythm  and  melody 
unconsciously  recall  the  once-loved  songs  which  still  linger  in  our 
memory,  not  dead  indeed,  but  sleeping ! 

It  were  useless  to  push  the  question  farther ;  but  we  may  well 
inquire  of  those  somewhat  advanced  in  life,  and  more  particularly 
of  those  who  measure  time,  not  by  years,  but  by  experiences,  if 
they  are  not  governed  in  the  choice  of  new  loves,  new  friends, 
new  likings,  and  new  sympathies  far  more  by  unconscious,  or 
even  conscious,  renewals  of  the  Past,  than  they  themselves  are 
generally  aware  ?  The  most  strenuous  efforts  of  Youth  to  recall 
only  bygone  feelings  are  invariably  and  unavoidably  mingled 
with  hopes  or  fears  for  the  Future.  Every  emotion  is  thus  a 
magnet,  from  which  no  exertion  can  banish  the  negative  pole  of 
anticipation  in  youth,  or  the  positive  antithesis  of  memory  in 
age. 

In  the  year  of  Teniers's  life,  his  last  love  was  thus  the  Indian 
summer  of  his  first — a  golden  reflection,  less  warm,  but  not  less 
beautiful ;  and  loved  the  more  in  that  it  seemed  destined  to  pass 
so  soon  away.  As  the  alchymist  of  the  olden  time  raised  up  in 
his  heart-glass,  from  the  ashes  of  the  dead  and  withered  rose,  the 
lovely  phantom — the  beautiful  reflection  of  the  fairer  flower,  now 
faded  forever — so  did  the  artist  raise  from  his  own  heart  those 
dim  and  shadowy  beauties  which  were  of  memory  and  the  dead, 
to  lend  a  grace  and  a  glory,  a  lustre  and  a  love,  to  the  living. 
And  those  who  would  rightly  comprehend  the  secret  of  the  at 
traction  which  he  found  in  the  beauty  and  amiability  of  Isabella 
de  Fresne,  must  seek  for  them  in  the  ineffable  loveliness  and 
gentleness  of  Anne  Breughel. 

We  are  assured,  from  a  thousand  little  incidents,  recorded  not 
only  by  contemporary  writers,  but  scattered  here  and  there  in  the 
works  of  Teniers  themselves,  that  the  period  of  his  first  married 
life  was  one  of  most  exquisite  and  unalloyed  happiness.  It  was 


212  SKETCH-BOOK    OF   ME,    MEISTER   KARL. 

during  the  days  of  his  first  love-marriage  with  Anne  Breughel, 
that  he  witnessed  his  earliest  triumphs  in  Art  and  experienced 
all  the  glow  and  glory  of  dawning  greatness.  It  was  in  this 
happy  time  that  he  brought  to  full  perfection,  and  made  his  own, 
that  peculiar  style  first  struck  out  by  the  elder  Breughel,  Anne's 
grandfather,  and  with  which  he  had  become  familiar  in  the 
paintings  of  his  own  father  and  Brawer.  It  was  during  this 
period  that  his  soul  first  comprehended,  in  all  their  ineffable  and 
silent  greatness,  the  sublimity  of  the  beautiful,  of  nature,  and  of 
God ;  whether  developed  in  the  fresh  green  prairie  with  its 
brooks,  or  in  the  strange,  ever-bubbling  sea  of  human  life  with 
its  lights  and  shades,  its  merry  gambols  and  grotesque  monsters. 
It  was  during  these  days  that  he  lived  as  a  lord  in  The  Castle  of 
the  Three  Towers,  en  bon  compagnon  with  Don  John  of  Austria, 
the  Archduke  Leopold,  the  Prince  of  Orange,  and  many  others 
who  were  his  frjends  and  guests.  It  was  during  those  days  that 
all  which  could  render  life  happy,  inspire  the  soul,  elevate  the 
imagination,  and  charm  the  feelings,  combined  to  lend  to  his  first 
love  and  wife,  Anne  Breughel,  that  ineffable  fascination  which 
spoke  in  after  life,  from  the  tomb,  in  a  new  form. 

By  the  death  of  Anne,  he  was  destined  not  only  to  mourn  the 
loss  of  all  those  happy  associations  which  her  love  had  drawn 
around  him,  but  to  sink  deep  into  the  abyss  of  mere  worldly 
suffering  and  comparative  poverty.  Anne,  at  the  period  of  their 
marriage,  was  a  wealthy  heiress.  Teniers  had  naught  save  his 
skill  to  depend  upon,  and  consequently  all  their  joint  property 
had  prospectively  been  settled  upon  the  children.  Teniers  might 
have  evaded  this  agreement,  and  in  spite  of  its  requisitions  almost 
conscientiously  have  retained  wherewithal  to  live  happily.  But 
this  he  refused  to  do.  His  children,  themselves,  were  in  tears 
at  this  stern  resolution  to  do  them  no  injustice,  and  all  his  friends 
and  relatives,  including  those  of  Anne,  remonstrated.  But  he 
had  for  all  a  uniform  reply — 

"I  will  not  live  on  the  property  of  orphans!" 

In  a  very  few  months,  his  entire  property — his  plate  and  arms, 
his  richly-embroidered  hangings,  and  costly  wrorks  of  art,  includ 
ing,  of  course,  his  favourite  Castle  of  the  Three  Towers — was  sold, 
the  price  to  be  paid,  with  interest,  to  his  children,  when  they 
should  attain  their  majority.  Of  all  he  had  once  called  his  own, 
Teniers  retained  only  a  horse,  for  he  felt  that  he  could  never 


LEGENDS    OF    FLEMISH   ART.  213 

relinquish  his  favourite  custom  of  riding  forth  of  a  morning  to 
observe  life  and  nature,  and  gather  material  for  the  picture 
which  he  intended  painting  after  dinner. 

And,  having  mentioned  this  habit,  the  reader  will  excuse  me 
if  I  pause  for  an  instant  to  record,  from  one  of  the  artist's  most 
enthusiastic  biographers,  an  anecdote  relative  to  it.  Such  was 
the  incredible  facility  of  his  execution,  that  a  vast  number  of  his 
pictures  are  termed  "after-dinner  pieces,"  because  they  were 
begun  and  finished  in  the  same  evening.  One  day  he  had  strolled 
with  Don  John  of  Austria,  to  a  gay  kermesse  or  village  festival. 
The  prince,  we  are  told,  returned,  charmed  with  all  he  had  wit 
nessed,  and  talking  incessantly,  not  only  of  the  jovial  merriment, 
but  more  particularly  of  a  very  pretty  tavern  girl,  whose  attrac 
tions  had  fascinated  his  eye.  After  supper  Don  John  retired,  as 
did  Teniers — the  former  to  his  couch,  the  latter  to  his  easel.  But 
what  was  the  surprise  of  Don  John  when  he  saw,  the  next  morn 
ing,  on  waking,  directly  before  his  bed,  the  entire  scene  of  the 
kermesse,  painted  with  striking  fidelity.  Nor  had  the  pretty  girl 
of  the  cabaret  been  forgotten — "she  smiled  upon  her  admirer 
with  pearly  teeth  and  rosy  lips,  worthy  of  smiling  elsewhere  than 
in  a  Flemish  tavern. " 

But  now,  farewell  to  all  these  bygone  and  beautiful  days !  He 
now  no  longer  studied  dances  and  taverns  from  the  window  of  his 
carriage,  as  it  was  once  said  of  him,  in  contrast  with  Brawer,  who 
lived  and  drank  with  his  models.  He  could  not  even  occasion 
ally  deign  to  pour  out,  "with  a  white  and  disdainful  hand,"  to 
some  Flemish  boor ;  for  what  had  been  a  noble  condescension  in 
the  great  lord,  would,  in  the  reduced  artist,  become  mere  boon- 
companionship.  He  fled  to  Brussels,  and  long  lived  only  for 
memory  of  his  dead  Anne,  for  Religion,  and  Art.  Reduced  to 
poverty,  his  pictures  also  fell  in  value,  we  are  told,  to  half-price. 
"With  the  grand  seigneur,  men  had  not  dared  to  drive  a  bar 
gain;  but  with  the  poor  artist,  they  only  feared  lest  they  should 
offer  too  much/' 

Yet  the  shadows  of  The  Three  Towers  ever  fell  darkly  and 
solemnly,  yet  pleasantly,  upon  his  soul.  Not  even  the  shades 
of  the  grave  were  so  cold  and  refreshing,  though  he  was  alone  in 
the  world  ;  for  he  looked  not  forward  to  the  tomb  as  the  spot 
where  he  should  again  wed,  in  death,  the  loved  one  passed  away.  A 
strange  presentiment  ever  haunted  him  that  he  should  once  more 


214  SKETCH-BOOK    OF    ME,    MEISTER   KARL. 

hear  the  music  of  that  voice,  again  gaze  with  undying  love  into 
those  infinite  eyes,  which  were  blue  seas  of  soul  and  beauty,  again 
feel  the  clasp  of  that  hand  which  now  pressed  his  heart  only  in 
troubled,  tearful  dreams;  and  this  not  only  in  the  endless  Land 
of  Light  which  lies  beyond  Death,  but  here,  in  the  busy  world  of 
cities  and  men. 

Reader,  I  have  known  one  who  had  but  little  fear  of  midnight 
spectres  and  graveyard  phantasms,  but  who  nourished  at  heart  an 
inexpressible  horror  at  the  thought  lest  he  should  some  day  meet, 
in  the  full  glare  of  sunlight  and  amid  the  bustle  of  daily,  active 
life,  those  whom  he  had  once  known,  but  who  were  now  departed. 
But  it  was  with  no  sentiment  of  horror  or  supernatural  awe  that 
this  feeling  (for  it  was  not  as  yet  matured  to  a  thought  or  belief) 
swam  dreamily  through  the  soul  of  Teniers.  It  was  such  a  sen 
sation  as  that  which  steals  over  us  when  we  insensibly  anticipate 
the  approach  of  spring,  with  its  warm  breezes,  the  voluptuous 
odour  of  violets,  and  the  thousand-fold  half-audible  overtures  of 
dream-operas,  whose  music  is  lost  in  sleep. 

His  daily  rides  were  often  in  the  direction  of  Perck ;  and  he 
seldom  returned  thence  without  visiting  the  grounds  of  the  Castle 
of  The  Three  Towers.  One  evening,  having  approached  nearer 
than  usual  to  its  gate,  he  gave  himself  up  unreservedly  to  all  the 
sad  yet  beautiful  recollections  of  the  Past.  Never  had  he  loved 
his  Anne  so  well  as  now ;  and  never  before  had  the  strange  pre 
sentiment  of  which  we  have  spoken  pressed  so  strongly  or  as 
sumed  so  vivid  a  form. 

"  Anne !  my  own  love  !"  he  sighed.  "Oh  !  if  thy  spirit  again 
visits  earth,  come  to  me,  and  be  mine  !" 

The  rustling  of  the  gravel,  as  if  stirred  by  a  light  footstep, — 
the  sound  of  the  rose-bush  brushed  by  a  silken  dress, — met  his 
ear ;  and,  turning,  he  beheld  in  the  moonlight  a  form  with  features 
which  even  in  broad  day  he  would  have  deemed  those  of  Anne. 
Yet  Anne  it  was  not ;  for,  on  beholding  the  stranger,  she  blushed 
deeply,  trembled,  and,  without  a  word,  turned  abruptly  away. 

The  suddenness  of  the  apparition,  and  its  evident  reality,  com 
bined  with  the  previous  feelings  of  the  artist,  had,  however,  well- 
nigh  overpowered  him.  Long  he  fixed  his  eyes  in  the  direction 
in  which  she  had  vanished,  as  if  gazing  into  another  world, 
and  then,  with  a  long,  sad  sigh,  turned  away. 

"Oh,   Anne,   my  wife-love!"    he    mused,    "I  had  wellnigh 


LEGENDS    OF    FLEMISH    ART.  215 

deemed  thee  mine  own  again.     But  patience ! — the  dream  is  not 
yet  out." 

As  he  mused,  he  heard  from  afar  a  sweet,  merry  voice,  trilling 
this  verse  of  an  old  Flemish  song  : 

Ick,  heb  van  jou  niet  te  singent 

Van  jou  vrouken  en  weet  ick  niet: 
Een  also  leyden  mare 

la  te  nacht  in  mijn  droome  geschiet. 

Oh,  naught  can  I  tell  of  your  fair  young  wife, 

And  naught  can  I  sing  of  thee  : 
I  only  know  that  she  caine — o'  my  life ! — 

By  night  in  a  dream  to  me. 

"Ha!  Hesperus!"  quoth  Teniers,  abruptly  reining  up  his 
horse ;  "  singest  thou  ?"  And,  with  a  clear  voice,  which  rung 
afar  on  the  evening  breeze,  over  rose-hedges  and  garden-walls,  he 
replied  to  the  Unseen  who  had  answered  his  thought — 

Is  also  leyden  mare 

Te  nacht  in  jou  droome  geschiet? 
So  gaet  en  drinkt,  koel  ister  wtjn, 

En  mclter  dan  niemant  niet  ! 

And  was  it  an  idle  tale  you  told  ? 

And  was  it  in  dreaming  done  ? 
Then  turn  to  the  cup,  while  the  wine  is  cold, 

And  sing  that  song  to  none  !* 

The  Castle  of  The  Three  Towers  had  been  purchased  and  was 
inhabited  by  the  Seigneur  Jean  de  Fresne,  Counsellor  of  the 
Parliament  of  Brabant.  His  daughter  Isabella,  who  shared  with 
him  its  splendid  solitude,  was  a  beautiful,  spiritual  creature, 
fresh  and  fair  as  one  of  the  rose-buds  in  her  father's  park,  and 
remarkable,  to  those  who  in  after  days  formed  the  comparison, 
for  her  singular  and  mysterious  likeness  to  the  departed  Anne 
Breughel.  The  favourable  impression  which  she  had,  from  the 
report  of  numerous  friends,  formed  at  an  earlier  period  for 
Teniers,  was  exalted,  after  her  removal  to  his  once  home,  into  the 
most  enthusiastic  and  glowing  admiration.  From  the  favourite 
handmaid  of  Anne,  who  had  passed  into  her  service,  she  learned 
a  thousand  traits  of  the  noble  and  gentle  character  of  the  "  lordly 
artist" — traits  which  were  confirmed  by  the  memory  of  every 

*  "  Harlcma  Oudt  Liedt-Boeck"—"  The  Old  Song-Book  of  Harlaem,"  p.  69. 

19 


216  SKETCH-BOOK    OF    ME,    MEISTEll    KARL. 

neighbour,  and  attested  more  forcibly,  we  fear,  to  Isabella  by  the 
remarkable  personal  attractions  which  his  portrait,  still  hanging 
in  the  castle,  presented. 

Were  there,  perhaps,  deeper  and  more  inexplicable  sympathies 
at  work,  which  were  capable  of  bringing  her  soul  more  nearly  in 
unison  with  the  departed  and  the  living  ?  We  know  not.  But 
there  was  a  strange  theory  current  in  those  days, — a  theory 
earnestly  insisted  on  by  the  great  Campanella,  and  which  the 
reader  may  find  discussed  in  many  works  relative  to  occult 
"  signatures,"  affinities,  and  antipathies, — that  between  those 
who  strongly  resembled  each  other  there  existed  a  mysterious 
harmony  of  thought  and  feeling.  And  it  was  not  strange  that 
the  youthful  and  imaginative  Isabella — dwelling  in  the  Castle  of 
The  Three  Towers,  and  reminded  at  every  step  by  the  portraits 
of  its  former  mistress,  by  her  mirror,  and  by  the  words  and 
actions  of  her  maid,  who  seemed  scarcely  aware  that  she  served 
a  stranger,  of  her  wonderful  resemblance  to  Anne — should,  in 
some  strange  wise,  have  lived  under  the  feeling  that  another  life 
and  another  soul  breathed  by  night  and  day  into  her  its  inspi 
ration. 

But,  by  every  portrait  of  Anne,  and  in  the  memory  of  all  who 
had  known  her,  there  was  another  form, — the  form  of  a  noble 
cavalier,  with  curling  locks  and  stately  bearing, — and  where  was 
he  now?  "He  would  still  l^ave  been  lord  of  this  castle,"  said 
her  father,  "  had  he  not  been  by  far  too  noble,  too  honourable, 
too  just.  In  fearing  to  wrong  his  children,  he  has  greatly 
wronged  himself." 

We  need  hardly  say  that  the  first  sunny  morning  found 
Teniers  again  loitering  among  the  gardens  of  the  castle.  At 
the  base  of  a  fountain  he  was  surprised  by  the  old  Counsellor  de 
Fresne,  who,  with  great  earnestness  and  kindness,  besought  him 
to  enter  and  consider  himself  as  once  more  at  home.  "  Why 
should  you  deprive  yourself,"  said  he,  "of  all  the  inspiration 
which  your  genius  requires,  and  which  you  have  a  right  to  de 
mand  ?  Come,  be  at  least  my  guest." 

With  these  words  he  led  Teniers  into  his  former  home,  and 
ushered  him  into  that  which  had  once  been  the  favourite  room 
of  Anne.  No  change  had  been  made  in  its  furniture  or  decora 
tions;  the  same  silver  chandelier  hung  from  the  gilded  and  fres 
coed  ceiling;  the  same  silken  curtains  trembled  in  the  morning 


LEGENDS    OF    FLEMISH    ART.  217 

breeze;  and  the  same  lute — Anne's  lute — rested  in  a  corner. 
But  at  the  extremity  of  the  room  he  beheld  an  attraction  which, 
more  powerfully  than  the  decorations  or  the  lute,  drew  back  his 
soul  to  the  Past,  or,  rather,  blended  the  Past  and  Present  in  one. 
Whether  a  golden  ray  of  hope  from  the  Future  gleamed  forth  at 
the  sight  we  know  not. 

At  an  easel,  painting,  sat  Anne's  counterpart — the  maiden 
whom  he  had  so  recently  met  by  moonlight  in  the  garden.  Yet 
the  resemblance  was  not  that  accurate  and  identical  similarity 
which  would  induce  a  careful  observer  to  mistake  one  for  the 
other.  Isabella  was  younger,  lighter,  and  less  grave  than  Anne 
in  her  bearing.  But  in  her  features,  in  the  blonde  hair  "  falling 
in  long  waves,"  and  in  her  tender  and  naif  glances,  she  was  all- 
identical  with  the  one  passed  away. 

No  look  could  have  been  more  modest,  no  salutation  more 
seemly,  than  that  with  which  she  greeted  Teniers;  but  the 
expression  of  the  one  and  the  tone  of  the  other  both  conveyed 
that  singular  and  indefinable  feeling  with  which  we  first  meet 
one  who  has  long  been  familiar  to  our  deepest  thought.  And 
in  the  chime  of  the  voice — that  mysterious  tone  or  timbre  which, 
perhaps,  indicates  to  the  careful  observer,  more  accurately  than 
any  other  personal  peculiarity,  the  true  character  of  an  indi 
vidual — Teniers  recognised  a  likeness,  indicating  a  more  than 
physical  resemblance. 

"  My  daughter  would  also  fain  be  enrolled  among  the  artist- 
guild/'  said  the  old  counsellor,  smiling.  "  In  faith,  she  lacks 
not  talent,  though  I  fear  she  needs  a  master  sadly.  Therefore, 
I  pray  you,  Mijn  Heer  Teniers,  to  give  her  the  advantage  of 
your  artist's  advice,  that  the  poor  child  may  boast  with  me  of 
having  had  the  best  teachers  in  all  things/' 

"And  that  I  can  well  say,  father,"  replied  Isabella;  "for  it  is 
to  your  counsel  and  instruction  that  I  owe  all  which  I  possess 
worth  knowing." 

"Niet  te  veel,  niet  te  veel, — not  so  much,  either,"  answered 
the  good  counsellor,  laughing.  "  Sure  I  never  taught  thee 
flattery.  "Well,  I  leave  you  to  your  scholar,  Heer  Teniers.  I 
must  depart.  Tot  wederseiris:  I  shall  meet  you  anon." 

Waving  his  broad,  Spanish  beaver,  the  stately  counsellor 
lifted  the  embroidered  hangings  from  a  door  and  disappeared, 
leaving  the  artist  alone  with  one  who  had  long  cherished  for  him 


218  SKETCH-BOOK   OF    ME,    MEISTER   KARL. 

in  her  soul  a  deep  love,  heightened  by  all  the  inspiration  of  inde 
finable  mystery  and  reverence. 

And  the  days  passed  by  like  a  dream  at  the  Castle  of  The 
Three  Towers.  But  who  can  analyze  the  secrets  of  the  human 
heart?  Teniers,  fascinated,  bewildered  by  the  charms  of  Isa 
bella,  we  are  told,  still  feared  to  abandon  his  heart  fully  to  Love. 
Whether  it  was  that,  with  the  noble  shame  characteristic  of  such 
a  nature,  he  would  not  offer  his  poverty  against  her  wealth,  or 
that  he  hesitated  to  take  advantage  of  a  love  which  was  only  too 
ready  to  respond  to  his  own,  we  know  not.  But  the  fascination 
was  terrible;  it  weighed  upon  his  soul.  The  earner iste,  or  wait 
ing-maid,  of  Isabella  ever  bore  herself  toward  him  as  if  no  change 
of  mistresses  had  taken  place,  and  increased  the  illusion  by 
inducing  Isabella  to  array  herself  as  Anne  had  done — in  the 
same  plumes,  with  the  same  coiffure,  and  in  the  same  colours. 
With  the  same  unmoved  air  as  of  old,  she  announced  to  him 
that  "  My  lady  awaits  you,  sir;"  and  the  same  honours  were  ever 
rendered  him  as  if  he  were  still  lord  of  the  castle.  Wishing  to 
break  the  spell,  and  fearing  to  involve  his  feelings  too  deeply  in 
a  love  which  might  possibly  be  opposed  by  the  counsellor,  he 
bade  a  sad  farewell,  tore  himself  abruptly  from  this  scene  of 
mysterious  fascination,  and  departed  for  France. 

He  had  intended  to  travel  in  Italy,  but  at  Lyons  he  retraced 
his  footsteps.  Love — burning,  overpowering  love — love  for  the 
dear  one  passed  away,  yet  who  seemed  to  live  and  breathe  for 
him  alone  in  a  new  form,  led  him  back  to  his  own  land.  "All 
is  lost  now,"  thought  he,  "  if  I  win  thee  not,  my  own  darling — 
my  undying  bride.  It  is  she  !  it  is  Anne  !  it  is  Isabella  who 
calls  !  I  come,  dearest — I  come !" 

On  his  return,  a  letter  from  the  old  counsellor  awaited  him. 
It  was  brief,  but  seemed  to  give  a  ray  of  comfort.  "  Come,  sir!" 
it  said,  "  come  again  to  us  !  Even  our  peasants  are  anxious  to 
see  once  more  their  true  lord,  and  my  daughter  Isabella  finds 
that  a  single  lesson  in  painting  is  not  enough  to  bestow  perfec 
tion,  even  from  such  a  master  as  yourself." 

It  was  again  a  fair  summer's  night  when  Teniers  re-entered 
the  grounds  of  the  Castle  of  The  Three  Towers.  The  odour  of 
the  roses  was  still  fresh  and  inspiring,  and  a  full  moon  cast  its 
light,  as  before,  on  the  scenery — and  the  soul.  As  he  lingered 
for  an  instant  by  the  borders  of  the  little  lake,  he  saw  a  boat, 


LEGENDS    OF   FLEMISH    ART.  219 

containing  two  female  figures,  approaching  the  shore.  The  one 
was  the  maid,  the  other  Isabella.  But  never  had  the  illusion 
seemed  more  perfect — never  had  Teniers  realized  before  so  per 
fectly  the  presence  of  her  whom  he  had  lost.  The  boat  touched 
the  border,  the  maid  vanished  with  a  light  step  and  a  smile,  and 
Teniers,  forgetting  all  in  the  illusion,  sunk  to  his  knee,  and 
grasping  her  small  white  hand,  pressed  it  to  his  lips : 

"Anne  !  oh,  my  own  Anne  ! — Isabella  !  pardon  me  \" 

"Anne,  if  you  will,"  replied  Isabel,  with  a  sweet  smile; 
"Anne  Breughel,  since  you  deem  me  worthy  of  the  name."* 

Teniers  pressed  again  her  hand,  and  arm  in  arm  the  lovers 
sought  the  castle. 

"  In  three  weeks,"  says  his  biographer,  "  they  were  wedded. 
The  old  counsellor  vainly  opposed  a  few  scruples,  but  soon 
yielded.  Teniers  again  took  up  his  abode  in  the  castle,  and 
lived  as  he  had  done  of  old.  Isabella  de  Fresne,  dazzled  by  his 
original  genius  and  his  noble  manner,  was  devoted  to  him  to  the 
last.  She  knew  that  she  ever  recalled  to  him  his  first  wife,  and 
that  she  was  loved  for  the  sake  of  another;  far  from  regretting 
it,  she  even  sought  to  resemble  more  and  more,  in  all  her  habits, 
the  departed  Anne,  so  that  in  one,  her  husband  loved  both." 

It  may  be  objected  that,  in  chronicling  the  legends  of  Teniers 
as  a  lover,  we  have  forgotten  his  characteristics  as  an  artist. 
Those  who  regard  him  as  a  mere,  though  excellent,  painter  of 
village  scenes,  of  popular  life,  or  of  grotesque  monsters  and 
diablerie,  have  not  looked  beneath  the  surface  or  into  the  depths 
of  his  genius.  It  is  an  excellent  axiom  of  the  present  day,  that 
literal  imitation  is  not  the  great  problem  of  Art.  But  Teniers 
was  not  a  literal  imitator,  as  were  Mieris,  Dow,  and  Terburg. 
With  him  all  was  life — infinitely  varied,  active  life — with  its 
sunshine  and  storms,  and  infinite  omnipresent  spirit.  To  the 
true  critic,  even  the  works  of  Leonardo  da  Vinci  are  not  more 
infinitely  animated,  or,  in  a  word,  more  Pantheistic,  than  those 
of  Teniers. 

In  the  heart  of  the  meanest  boor,  as  in  the  angel,  there  glows 
a  spark  of  endless  life.  Each  is  manifested  in  its  sphere,  and 
the  greatest  artist  is  he  who,  in  portraying  man,  makes  him  so 

*  Arscne  Houssaye. 
19* 


220  SKETCH-BOOK    OF    ME,    MEISTER    KARL. 

fruly  human  that  we  never  forget  a  single  attribute  of  his  nature. 
<l  To  reproduce  man  as  God  has  made  him/'  says  a  writer,  li  is  a 
mission  full  of  dignity/' 

For  those  wild  grotesques,  so  frequently  met  with,  of  Teniers, 
generally  representing  the  temptation  of  St.  Anthony,  and  which 
appear  to  be  a  less  delirious  form  of  the  feverish  and  diabolical 
insanities  of  his  connection,  HELL  BREUGHEL,  we  have  an  ad 
mirable  defence  by  the  poet  JULES  LE  FEVRE:  "All  is 
serious,"  says  he,  "for  the  man  who  scrutinizes  and  sounds;  and 
even  in  the  extravagances  of  Teniers  I  find  as  great  a  profundity 
of  abstraction  as  in  the  transcendental  allegories  of  Plato.  This 
panorama  of  fearful  caricatures  called  into  being,  and  around 
the  saint,  by  his  feverish  abstinence  from  all  pleasure,  may  be 
regarded  as  a  series  of  emblems.  Did  not  the  breaking  away 
from  the  flesh,  and  declaring  a  war  to  the  death  against  all 
earthly  feelings,  bring  into  existence  those  inexhaustible  mon 
strosities  which  the  satiric  Fleming  has  revived  ?  This  Rabelais 
of  painting  thus  shows  us  distinctly  of  what  impure  elements 
those  idols  are  formed  which  we  are  so  often  tempted  to  adore. 
These  carcasses  of  reptiles  are  only  the  true  forms  of  those 
passions  which  twine  themselves  around  us,  reduce  us  to  crawl 
in  the  marshes  of  vice  and  there  wallow  until  we  die.  There  is 
not  one  among  the  hideous  marionettes  of  this  burlesque  drama 
which  cannot  teach  the  thinker  as  stern  a  lesson  as  the  most 
solemn  parable.  And  the  moral  which  we  should  draw  is  this : 
that  if  we  are  not  to  yield  to  our  passions,  neither  should  we  seek 
to  destroy  them.  Let  us  be  their  king,  but  not  their  executioner." 


THE    OLD    DILIGENCE.  221 


CHAPTER  THE   TWENTY-FIFTH. 

IN  WHICH  THE  OLD  DILIGENCE  THUNDERS  AND  RATTLES  ON 
WARD  UNTIL  IT  REACHES  THE  TOWN  OF  ARLES  ;  CONTAIN 
ING 'DIVERS  TRAVELLERS'  TALES  AND  TWO  BALLADS. 

Keinem  hat  es  noch  gereut, 
Der  das  Ross  bestiegen, 
Um  in  frischer  Jugendzeit 
Durch  die  Wett  zu  fliegen. 

Die  Schoene  Magelone.     TlECK. 

And  never  yet  did  man  regret, 

When  he  was  old  and  gray, 

That  he  while  young  had  wandered  long 

In  countries  far  away. 

The  Fair  Magelone,  ly  TIECK. 

TRA  LIRA,  tra  lira,  lira,  lira,  lira!  On  we  go,  over  hill 
and  dale,  by  hamlet,  tower,  and  town.  The  postilion  cracks  his 
long  whip  cheerily,  and  the  bugle  rings  out  a  merry  chorus. 
Once  more,  reader,  we  are  off  in  our  old  diligence — off  by  land 
or  sea,  or  where  you  will,  high  or  low — in  search  of  adven 
tures.  I  long  for  a  rattling  ride — for  speed  and  motion.  Let 
us  start ! 

No ;  let  us  stop ! — for  there  by  the  roadside  trudges  a 

pretty  peasant  lass,  with  long,  black  eyes,  rosy  cheeks,  and  such 
a  neat  foot  and  ankle.  The  poor  thing  is  tired,  and  has  far  to 
go ;  let  us  give  her  a  lift.  See,  as  she  smiles,  what  pretty  lips 
and  pretty  teeth  !  Too  full,  do  you  say  ? — not  a  seat  left  ?  Oh, 
reader,  pray  take  her  in  your  lap  !  you  are  a  good  fellow,  and 
obliging  •  I  said  so  from  the  beginning.  There,  now — do  you 
find  her  too  heavy  ?  Of  course  not. 

And  on  we  go!  "It  is  good  travelling/'  say  the  Germans, 
"with  your  own  whip  and  with  a  friend's  horse;"  therefore, 
postilion,  lay  on  the  leather,  and  scud  like  the  storm-cloud ;  or 
if  you  prefer  it,  go  like  Faust's  demon,  "as  quick  as  the  transit 
from  good  to  evil." 


222  SKETCH-BOOK   OF    ME,    MEISTER    KARL. 

"I  have  travelled  much  in  diligences,"  said  Wolf  Short,  "and 
have  met  more  than  once  with  odd  adventures  therein.  One  of 
them  was  in  giving  away  a  bride." 

"What ! — a  wedding  in  a  wagon  1" 

"Fact.  I  was  travelling  with  two  friends  (one  of  them  a 
clergyman)  in  an  American  stage-coach  in  the  far  West,  when, 
as  we  stopped  at  the  door  of  a  small  country  tavern,  a  young 
lady  and  gentleman  got  in,  who  were  evidently  lovers,  and  quite 
as  evidently  very  much  agitated.  Now,  a  stage-coach,  I  know, 
is  not  a  diligence,  but  only  its  first  cousin " 

"Well!" 

"There  was  something  in  the  appearance  of  both  which  deeply 
interested  me,  and  I  soon  contrived  to  win  confidence.  As  I  had 
anticipated,  they  were  eloping.  We  had  not  gone  more  than  a 
mile,  ere  the  Lord-Ullin  father  of  the  bride  appeared  in  hot  pur 
suit.  As  I  had  made  up  my  mind  that  the  lovers  were  a  con 
genial  couple,  (for  lie  wore  canary  kids,  and  her  bonnet  had  a 
buff  trimming,)  I  determined  to  aid  them." 

"That  was  very  noble  in  you !"  cried  CORALIE. 

"  Unfortunately  our  driver  was  a  friend  of  the  old  gentleman 
pursuing,  and  on  learning  the  state  of  the  case,  he  obstinately 
refused  to  go  a  step  farther.  It  was  unfortunate,  for  as  my 
friends  suddenly  remembered  that  they  were  in  great  haste  to 
proceed,  one  of  them  was  under  the  stern  necessity  of  knocking 
the  driver  from  his  seat  and  of  taking  the  ribbons  himself." 

"Bravo  !"  cried  young  C . 

"  It  has  always  been  a  matter  of  regret  to  me  that  the  unfor 
tunate  man,  in  falling,  broke  a  leg.  But  we  had  no  time  to  stop 
for  surgery,  and  our  new  driver  was  a  first-rate  whip.  We  went 
like  a  hurricane,  until  the  company  within  were  shaken  like 
marbles  in  a  mill.  Suddenly  a  bright  thought  entered  my  head. 
'This  gentleman/  said  I  to  the  lovers,  and  nodding  toward  the 
clergyman,  'will  marry  you.' 

"  'Of  course,  I  will/  said  the  clergyman.  There  was  no  use 
in  his  refusing,  nor  did  he  feel  inclined  to,  for  the  bride's 
father  owed  him  a  bad  debt  of  one  hundred  dollars,  and  his 
blood  was  up. 

"  So  he  began,  and  went  on  very  well,  excepting  three  or  four 
jolts  and  tumbles,  which  rather  detracted  from  the  dignity  of 
the  ceremony.  Joining  hands  was  a  difficult  matter,  for  we  re- 


THE   OLD   DILIGENCE.  223 

quired  all  our  hands  to  hold  on  with.  But  our  friend  the  driver, 
who  had  contrived  not  only  to  steer  his  cattle,  but  also  to  witness 
the  ceremony  by  occasional  glimpses  through  a  hole,  pulled  up 
for  a  second,  and  so  that  matter  was  disposed  of.  When  the  old 
gentleman  at  last  came  down  on  us,  he  was  astonished  to  find  a 
son-in-law  in  the  coach. " 

"  And  how  did  he  bear  it  ?" 

"Like  a  trump,  and  paid  the  parson  his  debt  for  a  marriage 
fee ;  after  which,  we  all  returned  to  the  old  gentleman's  house 
and  made  merry  on  the  fat  of  the  land.  He  had  excellent 
Madeira,  and  some  very  fine  old  Bourbon." 

" HEINE,"  said  Yon  Schwartz,  "has  written  a  very  witty  song 
on  love  in  a  diligence,  in  which  he  says  that  after  riding  with  a 
lady,  they  ended  by  finding  Love,  '  the  blind  passenger/  seated 
between  them.  You  all  know  that  in  Germany  a  chance  pas 
senger  is  termed  '  blind.'  " 

"And  I  have  heard,"  said  Adrien,  "that  there  is  at  the  pre 
sent  day  a  wealthy  gentleman  travelling  about  France  in  a  dili 
gence,  which  forms  his  only  earthly  home.  It  contains  a  kitchen, 
library,  wine  cellar,  and  sleeping  apartment." 

"I  have  heard  of  him,"  said  C .  "He  originally  had  a 

beautiful  garden  on  the  roof,  with  a  vase  at  each  corner,  and  a 
fountain  playing  in  the  centre  j  but  he  was  obliged  to  relinquish 
this,  for  the  rude  boys,  as  he  passed  along,  threw  stones  at  his 
flowerpots,  and  smashed  the  crockery." 

"Cousin,"  said  Mrs.  C ,  "do  pray  be  choicer  in  your 

language." 

iiMille  pardons"  exclaimed  the  rapid  young  gentleman,  with 
a  glance  at  the  Wolf. 

It  is  certainly  a  great  advantage  for  any  gentleman  to  travel 
with  friends  in  general  and  relations  in  particular ;  albeit  he 
is  wont  to  miss  many  of  those  eccentric  bamboches  and  odd 
events  which  seem  to  be  the  peculiar  property  of  the  solitary 
prowler. 

And  apropos  of  little  incidents,  reader,  I  will  tell  you  of  a 
small  chemical  "sell"  which  once  occurred  to  me,  and  which  the 
sight  of  the  "properties"  therein  referred  to  has  just  recalled. 

It  happened  a  few  years  since  to  MEISTER  KARL  to  be  wend 
ing  his  way  one  summer  evening  through  the  streets  of  London. 
He  had  engaged  to  meet  that  evening  a  party  of  friends  at  the 


224  SKETCH-BOOK    OF    ME,    MEISTER    KARL. 


given  by  that  illustrious  nobleman,  BAROX  NICHOLSON, 
Lord  Chief  Justice  of  the  Judge  and  Jury  Club.  At  a  corner 
of  the  Strand  he  was  accosted  by  an  individual  clad  in  the  garb 
of  decent  poverty,  who  earnestly  entreated  him  to  buy  a  little 
glass  bottle  containing  several  very  minute  copper  coins. 

"But  I  bought  some  of  you  yesterday,"  replied  the  Meister. 

"Can't  have  too  much  of  a  good  thing,  sir,"  replied  the 
hawker.  "  Only  a  penny,  sir  —  beautiful  bottle,  never  seed  the 
likes,  I  des-say  —  containing  two  worry  little  browns,  each  of  the 
walue  of  the  sixteenth  arid  fourteenth  diwision  of  a  farden  sepa- 
ratively.  Vot  you  doesn't  require  yourself,  your  friends  may 
want/' 

"But  I  tell  you  that  you've  sold  rne  some  already,"  replied 
Karl,  trying  to  push  on. 

"Sell  you  again,  sir,  p'raps"  was  the  reply.  "Now,  do  buy 
vim  —  only  a  penny.  Besides/'  he  continued  hastily,  as  if  fear 
ful  of  being  overheard,  "  if  you'll  only  buy  run,  I'll  tell  you  how 
to  get  them  coins  out  vithout  breakin'  or  bcndin'  the  little 
bottle.  It's  a  great  dodge,  sir,  and  you  may  grow  rich  a  bet- 
tin'  on  it." 

The  last  idea  was  irresistibly  ludicrous.  Karl  forked  over  the 
lucre;  the  hawker  pressed  into  his  hand  a  small  slip  of  paper, 
and  vanished. 

It  was  not  until  late  in  the  evening  that  the  Meister  bethought 
him  of  his  bottle  and  the  secret.  Displaying  the  former  to  his 
friends,  he  inquired  if  any  of  them  could  inform  him  how  the 
coins  could  be  extracted  without  bending  or  breaking  the 
glass.  The  entire  party  declared  themselves  ignorant,  and  one 
daring  individual  offered  to  bet  a  supper  that  it  could  not  bev 
done. 

"  I  can  do  it,"  replied  Karl. 

"  But  how  ?"  chorused  all. 

"  I  don't  know,"  was  the  reply,  "  but  wait  a  minute  :  the 
secret  is  written  on  this  folded  paper." 

In  breathless  silence  the  mystic  scroll  was  opened.  On  it 
appeared,  in  coarse,  irregular  characters  —  "  NITRIC  ACID  WILL 

DISSOLVE    THE    COPPER!" 

The  young  traveller  who  pursues  alone  the  tenor  of  his  way 
will  by  no  means  invariably  find  it  even.  He  cannot  at  times 


THE    OLD    DILIGENCE.  25 

help  a  feeling  of  sadness  when  he  recalls  home  and  friends;  and 
if  he  have  not  the  faculty  of  readily  forming  new  ties,  his  case 
is  often  sad  indeed.  I  remember  a  little  ballad  by  Count 
Albrecht  von  Schlippenbach,  in  which  these  longings  are  well 
described : 

Ix  DER  FERNE.  FAR  FROM  HOME. 

Nun  leb'  wohl  du  kleine  Gasse,  Fare  thee  well !  thou  lane  so  humble, 
Nun  ade  du  stiiles  Dach  !  Quiet  home,  farewell  to  thee! 

Vater,  Mutter,  sahn  wir  traurig,  Sadly  gazed  I  on  my  parents, 
Und  die  Liobste  sah  mir  nach.  And  my  Mary  gazed  on  me. 

Hier  in  weiter,  weiter  Feme,  Hero  so  far,  so  far  I  wander, 

Wie's  mich  nach  der  Heimath  zieht !  Still  for  home  and  love  I  long; 

Lustig  singen  die  Gesellen,  Merry  sing  my  wild  companions, 

Doch  es  ist  ein  falsches  Lied.  But  it  seems  a  hollow  song. 

Andre  Stadtchen  kommen  freilich  Other  cities  oft  receive  me, 
Andre  Madchen  zu  Gesicht,  Other  maidens  oft  I  see; 

Ach  !  wohl  siud  es  andre  Madchen,  Other  maidens  are  they  truly, — 
Doch  die  Erne  ist  es  nichL  Not  the  maiden  luved  by  me. 

"Andre  Stadtchen,  andre  Madchen,"  "Other  cities,  other  maidens !" 

Ich  da  mitten  drin  so  stumm !  Here  so  lost  and  sad  I  stand! 

"Andre  Madchen,  andre  Stadtchen  !"  "  Other  maidens,  other  cities," — 

0  wie  gerne  kehrt'  ich  um !  Give  me  back  my  Fatherland  ! 

Other  cities,  other  maidens ! — courage,  young  one !  the  time 
will  come  when,  by  the  snug  fire-side,  or  in  the  cosy  parlour 
at  home,  all  these  lonely  hours  will  return  gilded  with  many 
a  pleasant  thought,  for  they  will  bear  with  them  memories  of 
travel  and  of  beauty.  Those  who  sing  "home,  sweet  home" 
so  dolefully  when  far  away,  are  generally  the  very  ones  who 
exclaim  with  most  zest  when  returned,  "Ah,  Jim,  those  were 
great  times  that  we  used  to  have  there  up  in  the  old  Rue  de  la 
Pair— hey?" 

But,  as  I  remember,  we  had  started  with  this  chapter  in  our 
old  diligence,  and  were  madly  careering  onward,  Heaven  knows 
whither.  For  want  of  a  better  place  for  the  nonce,  let  us  sup 
pose  that  we  are  travelling  among  the  old  cities  in  the  South 
of  France,  for  I  know  of  few  pleasanter,  or  better  worthy 
examination. 

ARLES — Marseilles — Nismes — Montpellier  !  Those  names  fall 
gently  and  softly  on  the  recollection,  like  spiritual  bank-notes  on 


22G  SKETCH-BOOK    OF    ME,    MEISTER    KARL. 

the  Sabbath  of  the  soul  into  the  charity-box  of  memory.  Take 
one  land  with  another,  there  are  few  which  present  such  an 
agreeable  combination  of  natural  beauty  with  romantic  associa 
tions  of  the  past,  as  the  South  of  France. 

ARLES — the  Arelas  Civitas  of  the  ancients — rivals  even 
Avignon  in  the  number  and  interest  of  its  attractions  and 
legends.  Originally  selected  by  Julius  Caesar  as  the  capital  of 
that  domain  which  he  had  wrested  from  Marseilles,  it  speedily 
rose  to  great  importance,  and  received  from  him  the  name  of 
JULIA,  which  name  Constantino  afterward  changed  for  his  own. 
It  was  for  many  years  the  favourite  residence  of  the  latter 
emperor,  who  adorned  it  with  magnificent  buildings,  and  be 
stowed  upon  it  many  marks  of  a  predilection  subsequently 
increased  by  its  becoming  the  birthplace  of  his  daughter,  Fausta 
the  Fair.  It  was  during  his  journey  from  Aries  to  Rome,  when 
about  to  join  battle  with  Mezentius,  that  the  celebrated  appari 
tion  of  the  cross  in  the  heavens,  with  the  inscription,  IN  HOC 
SIGNO  VINCES,  was  witnessed  by  him;  in  commemoration  where 
of  he  had  struck,  on  his  return  to  Aries,  a  medal,  bearing  on 
one  side  a  radiant  cross,  and  on  the  other  the  words  ARELAS 
CIVITAS. 

Under  Charles  the  Bald,  Aries  was  elevated  into  a  kingdom, 
BOZON  being  its  first  monarch.  In  the  thirteenth  century  it 
attained  its  culminating  point.  Possessing  a  vast  commerce,  and 
celebrated  for  its  manufactures  of  weapons  and  jewelry,  it 
speedily  became  the  metropolis  of  the  South  of  France.  Arch 
bishop  Turpin,  the  friend  of  Charlemagne,  died  there,  and  was 
buried  in  its  cemetery — the  most  celebrated  place  of  interment 
during  the  Middle  Ages  in  Europe.  No  wonder  that  its  repu 
tation  should  be  so  widely  extended,  since  it  was  generally 
believed  that  the  corpses  deposited  within  its  limits  were  pro 
tected  by  divine  interposition  against  desecration  by  witch 
craft  or  the  hand  of  violence.  It  was  even  thought  that  this 
miraculous  protection  began  to  operate  as  soon  as  any  person 
had  determined  that  his  remains  should  be  laid  in  this  campo 
santo  ! 

Gervais  de  Tilbury,  who  wrote  in  the  thirteenth  century, 
gives,  in  his  book  "De  MiraLilibm  Mundi"  a  curious  legend 
relating  to  this  belief.  And  be  it  borne  in  mind  that  he  vouches 
for  its  truth,  having  himself  witnessed  the  occurrence : 


THE    OLD    DILIGENCE.  227 

"  It  was  the  custom  for  those  dwelling  near  the  Rhone,  above 
Aries,  to  consign  the  coffins  containing  the  bodies  of  their  de 
funct  friends  to  its  stream,  placing  first  a  sum  of  money  beneath 
the  head  of  the  corpse,  well  assured  that  a  divine  guidance  would 
keep  them  clear  of  all  rocks  or  sand-banks,  and  arrest  them  in 
their  course  directly  opposite  the  last  house  in  Aries,  where  men 
were  always  in  waiting  to  receive  them.  When  any  of  the  boat 
men  on  the  river  met  with  one  of  these  mysterious  death-barks, 
they  saluted  it  with  the  sign  of  the  cross,  and  suffered  it  to  float 
onward  unmolested;  nor  would  they  for  worlds  have  meddled 
with  the  funeral  gold  which  it  contained,  for  it  was  believed  that 
the  guardian  angel  of  the  deceased  sat  upon  the  coffin  as  steers 
man,  spreading  his  wings  for  sails. 

"  Now,  certain  graceless  knaves  dwelling  at  Beaucaire,  fearing 
neither  God  nor  man,  beholding  one  day  a  stately  coffin  coming 
down  the  Rhone,  resolved  to  plunder  it  of  the  burial-money; 
which  heathenish  and  most  vile  act  they  incontinently  effected, 
having  gone  forth  in  a  boat  and  robbed  it  in  the  middle  of  the 
river. 

tl  What  was  their  astonishment  to  see  the  coffin,  though  float 
ing  at  the  time  far  from  any  bank  or  impediment,  at  once  stop  in 
its  course  and  remain  spinning  round  and  round  on  the  spot 
where  the  heinous  deed  had  been  committed.  And  there  it  re 
mained  for  many  days;  nor  could  any  force  send  it  down  the 
river  one  jot,  until — the  strangeness  of  the  deed  having  excited 
inquiry — the  thieves  were  detected  and  the  money  restored,  after 
which  it  quietly  swam  on  its  course." 

This  Arlesian  burying-field  must  have  been  very  beautiful  in 
its  day,  if  we  judge  from  the  sarcophagi  now  in  Paris  and  Mar 
seilles.  The  proverb,  Ditior  Arelas  sepulta  quam  viva — (t  the 
buried  Aries  is  richer  than  the  living" — though  applied  at  pre 
sent  exclusively  to  the  supposed  inhumed  riches  of  the  city,  origin 
ated  in  the  great  splendour  of  its  campo  santo.  The  vast  num 
ber  of  its  tombs  is  thus  alluded  to  in  the  Orlando  Furioso : 

Delia  gran  moltitudine  clie  uccisa, 
Fu  d'ogni  parti  in  questa  ultima  guerra, 
Se  ne  vede  ancor  regno  in  quella  terra 
Che  presso  ad  ARLI,  ove  il  Rodano  atagna 
Plena  di  sepolture  e  la  campagna. 

Of  all  the  wealth  and  beauty  of  this  Arlesian  city  of  the  dead — 

20 


228  SKETCH-BOOK   OF   ME,    MEISTER   KARL. 

of  all  its  fair  sarcophagi,  temples,  churches,  arches,  tablets,  and 
tombs — how  little  remains !  Laid  waste  by  the  vandal  liberality 
of  its  different  consuls  and  prefects,  who  could  conceive  of  no 
more  economical  and  agreeable  gift  to  Louis  XIV.,  and  to  many 
notables  of  a  subsequent  era,  than  the  free  right  of  plunder  in 
their  churchyard,  the  traveller  now  seeks  in  vain  among  a  score 
of  tombstones  and  a  mass  of  fragments  for  some  trace  of  its 
ancient  glory.  "  The  dead  ride  fast/'  says  Buerger.  Is  it  not 
sad  to  see  their  monuments — those  last  faint  struggles  for  an 
earthly  immortality — perishing  so  rapidly  after  them  ? 

But  a  glorious  souvenir  of  the  past  still  exists  in  the  Roman 
amphitheatre  of  Aries ;  said  to  be  the  best  preserved  and  most 
perfect  erection  of  the  kind  in  existence.  The  reader  who  cares 
to  be  informed  as  to  its  past  and  present  appearance,  or  to  become 
learned  in  the  vomitoria,  velaria,  and  liospitalia  of  this  lordly 
slaughter-house,  and  to  learn  on  what  occasions  it  was  signalized 
by  the  presence  or  patronage  of  Constantino,  Honorius,  and 
Childebert,  may  consult  Les  Bords  du  Rhone,  or  Frossard's 
learned  work  on  the  Antiquities  of  Aries.  I  only  recollect  sit 
ting  there  alone  one  silent,  sunny  morning,  listening  to  the  birds 
chirping  and  fluttering  over  the  old  gray  ruin,  and  trying  to  recall 
snatches  of  troubadour  poesy,  and  scenes  from  Le  Dernier  Roi 
d"  Aries.  The  higher  the  mountain  the  smaller  the  chalet,  and 
not  unfrequently  the  greatness  of  the  place  is  in  inverse  ratio  to 
the  thoughts  which  it  awakens. 

But  the  glory  of  Aries  is  its  cloister  of  Saint  Trophime.  Let 
the  scholar  whose  soul  is  imbued  with  the  mysterious  beauty  of 
the  Middle  Ages  linger  long  amid  the  shadows  of  its  Norman 
arches  and  Gothic  ogives,  for  in  all  Europe  he  will  not  find 
another  place  more  likely  to  inspire  in  him  the  sentiment  of 
romance,  and  memories 

"  Of  the  dim,  distant  days  of  king  and  knight." 

I  have  lingered  there  at  even-tide,  when  the  shadows  of  its  quaint 
columns  fell  across  the  darkening  aisles,  when  the  bat  flitted 
through  the  quadrangle,  and  the  echoing  footsteps  of  a  chance 
passenger  sounded  like  the  tread  of  an  armed  knight.  Of  all  the 
religious  edifices  which  the  hand  of  the  Middle  Ages  has  placed 
in  the  South  of  France,  the  most  remarkable  is  this  cloister  of 
Saint  Trophime. 


THE    OLD    DILIGENCE.  229 

"Christian  Art  has  here  displayed  all  the  richness  of  its  ori 
ginal  genius,  all  the  immensity  of  its  conception,  all  the  re 
sources  of  its  ardent  and  fantastic  imagination.  All  the  prodi 
gies  of  the  Middle  Ages  are  here  accumulated,  grouped,  pressed 
into  lines,  and  exposed,  like  the  paintings  of  old  masters  in  the 
Louvre,  to  public  view." 

This  church  and  cloister,  founded  originally  by  the  Archbishop 
Virgilius,  A.  D.  301,  dedicated  by  him  to  Saint  Trophiine,  the 
first  propagator  of  Christianity  in  Gaul,  pillaged  by  the  Saracens, 
and  destroyed  by  the  Northmen,  was  finally  rebuilt  with  great 
splendour  in  the  eleventh  century.  The  cloister  is  a  complete 
summary  of  the  history  of  the  Middle  Ages.  Four  galleries, 
each  erected  at  a  different  period,  furnish  perfect  illustrations  of 
the  four  great  epochs  of  Christian  Art.  In  the  Northern  Gallery, 
we  have  a  grand  specimen  of  the  stern  and  simple  Romanesque, 
representing  admirably  the  majestic  purity  of  the  early  church. 
"In  the  Eastern  Gallery,"  says  Alphonse  B.,  "a  sentiment  of 
Oriental  luxury  has  glided  in  among  the  traditions  of  antiquity. 
A  greater  originality  of  style  and  boldness  on  the  part  of  the 
artist  here  indicates  that  change  in  the  manner  of  the  age  and 
the  new  developments  in  religion  which  mark  the  transition  era. 
But  in  the  Western  Gallery  we  see  the  Gothic — the  sentiment  of 
the  beautiful,  mysterious  Middle  Age  in  all  its  glory ;  while  in 
the  Southern,  the  determination  of  style  fully  illustrates  the  con 
dition  of  the  church  during  the  fifteenth  century,  when  con 
vulsed  by  dissensions  and  new  forms  of  belief."  Yet,  despite 
these  architectural  differences,  a  certain  picturesque  unity  per 
vading  the  whole,  prevents  us  from  feeling  that  want  of  harmony 
usually  resulting  from  a  mixture  of  styles.  The  rich  profusion 
of  ornament  in  which  the  cloister  abounds  favors  this  unity;  and, 
when  the  shades  of  twilight  swim  around,  suppressing  lesser  de 
tails,  that  the  imagination  may  more  than  reproduce  them,  we 
gaze  about  us  and  wonder  that  man  could  ever  have  created 
aught  so  dream-like  and  lovely.  The  walls  and  columns  wrought 
into  elaborate  statuary  and  tracery  are  no  longer  mere  places  for 
ornament,  but  have  become  ornaments  themselves. 

In  this  cloister  the  lover  of  Romantic  Art  may  revel  in  the  con 
templation  of  all  the  beauty  and  mystery  of  that  singular  era. 
All  the  personages  of  sacred  history  stand  before  him  in  mute 
procession,  living  in  death  and  animate  in  stone.  Here  ogives, 


230  SKETCH-BOOK    OF    ME,    MEISTER   KARL. 

trefoils,  chevrons,  rosaces,  niches,  mascarons,  lobes,  and  all  the 
quaint  traceries  of  Gothic  Art  are  scattered  with  no  unsparing 
hand;  while  the  student  who  sees  in  such  ornament,  not  tho 
work  of  Art,  but  the  mysterious  hieroglyph,  will  find  innumerable 
symbols  pregnant  with  occult  meaning.  Here  arc  the  knight 
and  the  dragon  of  Mithraic  origin,  the  two  battling  warriors,  and 
other  emblems  found  in  every  perfect  Gothic  church,  and  which 
the  Middle  Ages  inherited  from  Arabian  and  Persian  sources — 
emblems  typifying  the  eternal  contest  of  good  and  evil,  combined 
with  other  mysterious  symbols,  whose  meaning  has,  perhaps,  long 
been  hidden  in  the  grave  of  some  old  monk  or  long-bearded  Free 
mason  of  the  olden  time. 

In  the  Southern  Gallery,  the  Legend  of  St.  Martha  slaying  the 
Tarascou  is  quaintly  represented  on  the  impost  of  a  pillar.  This 
sculpture  was  pointed  out  to  me  and  explained  by  Monsieur 
Frossard,  the  antiquary,  who  kindly  acted  as  my  cicerone  in  ex 
ploring  the  beauties  of  Saint  Trophime.  And  as  the  reader  may 
not  have  heard  the  legend  to  which  I  refer,  I  will  take  the  liberty 
of  narrating  it : 

"Centuries  ago,  one  of  the  most  terrible  monsters  in  hell 
availed  himself  of  the  negligence  of  Satan's  porter,  who  had  in 
cautiously  left  the  gate  open  for  an  instant,  and  escaped. 

"This  monster  was  a  dragon,  bearing  on  his  back  a  carapace 
or  tortoise-shell  shield  bristling  with  fearful  spines;  his  paws 
were  armed  with  enormous  claws ;  his  head  was  a  horrible  medley 
of  those  of  man,  the  lion,  and  the  tiger,  while  his  jaws  displayed 
many  rows  of  teeth — long,  sharp,  and  glittering  as  sabres. 

"After  long  journeying  in  the  air,  and  over  earth  and  seas,  the 
monster  settled  in  a  cavern  near  Tarascon,  a  town  on  the  Ilhone, 
not  far  from  Aries. 

"  He  soon  laid  waste  the  country,  devouring,  however,  only 
women  and  children.  And  on  the  day  of  his  arrival  at  Tarascon, 
so  great  was  his  thirst  that  he  nearly  dried  up  the  river. 

"So  great  was  his  audacity  that  at  length  he  often  prowled 
about  the  walls  of  the  city,  and  one  Sunday,  as  the  inhabitants  were 
quietly  returning  from  church,  he  dashed  in  among  them  and  bore 
away  MADELEINE,  then  famed  throughout  France  for  her  beauty. 

"At  this  time,  two  women  and  two  men  who  had  been  cast 
away  at  sea  in  a  crazy  boat,  without  oars,  sails,  or  rudder,  were 
carried  to  the  shores  of  Provence. 


THE    OLD    DILIGENCE.  231 

"To  conduct  them  safely,  Saint  Michael  placed  his  golden 
lance  in  the  middle  of  their  bark  for  a  mast,  and  the  Virgin  had 
cast  thereon  her  veil  as  a  sail. 

"  These  wrecked  and  saved  were  Saint  Lazarus  the  Revived, 
Saint  Maximin,  Saint  Martha,  and  Mary  Magdalen  the  Converted. 

"  The  first  went  his  way  to  Marseilles  to  preach  the  gospel, 
and  afterward  became  the  firsi  bishop  and  patron  of  that  city,  as 
did  the  second  at  Aix. 

"Mary  Magdalen  went  her  way  to  Sainte  Baume,  while  Saint 
Martha  bore  her  sacred  torch  to  many  different  cities. 

"Moved  by  her  miracles,  the  inhabitants  of  Tarascon  prayed 
her  to  deliver  them  from  the  monster.  And  followed  by  them, 
she  sought  his  den  by  a  path  wet  with  blood  and  strewed  with 
human  bones. 

"Armed  only  with  a  little  cross  of  wood,  Saint  Martha  entered 
the  cavern.  The  monster,  roaring  with  rage  and  terror,  retreated 
before  her  to  the  inner  bound  of  his  cave.  Flames  and  smoke 
rolled  in  terrible  clouds  from  his  throat,  and  he  suddenly  darted 
upon  her,  uttering  a  yell  which  shivered  the  rocks  around. 

But oh,  wonder  of  wonders  !  he  fell  back  at  her  feet,  no 

longer  a  dragon,  but  transformed  to  the  lamb  of  Saint  John  ! 

"'Iu  the  name  of  Christ  follow  me!'  said  the  saint,  and 
binding  him  with  her  girdle,  she  led  him  forth  and  delivered 
him  to  the  people.  In  consequence  of  this  miracle,  the  Taras- 
conians  were  that  day  converted  to  Christianity.  In  memory  of 
which,  King  Ilene  instituted  a  festival  and  games  on  the  14th  of 
April,  1474,  which  are  still  observed." 

In  this  procession  is  drawn  a  terrible  effigy  of  the  monster. 
Within  it  are  four  men,  who  move  the  figure  in  so  strange  a 
manner  that  the  games  are  not  always  without  danger. 

In  the  sculpture  to  which  I  have  referred,  the  scaly  monster 
(with  the  legs  of  the  unfortunate  Madeleine  hanging  out  of  his 
mouth)  turns  up  his  eyes  in  amiable  expectancy  at  the  fair 
saint,  who  with  uplifted  girdle  (some  naive  old  chronicles  say 
that  it  was  her  garter')  is  about  to  smite,  subdue,  and  lead  in 
lamb-like  captivity  the  monster. 

Around  the  galleries  are  arranged  scores  of  old  tomb-tablets, 
many  of  them  commemorating  the  abbots  and  monks  who  many 
centuries  ago  passed  as  lords  or  vassals  among  these  galleries,  and, 
it  may  be,  wore  with  their  feet  the  very  pavement  on  which  we 

20* 


232  SKETCH-BOOK    OF    ME,    MEISTER    KARL 

now  stand.     Several  of  these  inscriptions  I  copied ;  one  was  as 
follows  : — 


The  meaning  of  which  I  humbly  conjecture  to  be — "Here  rests 
Durant,  a  priest,  sinner,  and  canon  of  the  royal  cloister  of  St. 
Trophime,  u'ho  died  in  tlie  Year  of  our  Lord  one  thousand 
two  hundred  and  eighteen." 

It  was  at  the  grand  altar  of  this  church  of  Saint  Tropbime,  and 
on  the  third  of  September,  A.D.  1455,  that  King  Rene*  was 
wedded  to  Jeanne  de  Laval,  daughter  of  County  Guy  XIII.  and 
of  Isabel  de  Bretagne.  The  festivals  and  merry-makings  which 
succeeded  this  royal  marriage  are  still  celebrated  in  lay  and 
legend  among  the  Arlesians. 

It  was  in  the  Abbey  of  Montmajor,  near  Aries,  that  the  Donat- 
ists  were  condemned,  A.D.  314,  and  Constantino  made  this  cele 
brated  reply  to  those  who  solicited,  on  the  part  of  the  heretics,  a 
revisal  of  his  opinion  : 

Judiciiim  mcuin  ponttJant,  qui  ijisc  jndicium  CJiristi  expecto! 

"They  demand  a  reconsideration  of  me,  who  myself  await  the 
judgment  of  Christ." 

Since  writing  the  above  on  Saint  Trophime,  I  have  raked  up 
another  old  legend  of  the  Aliscamps,  as  the  Arlesian  burying- 
ground  was  anciently  termed.  The  authentic  text  of  this  legend 
is  said  to  exist  in  the  archives  of  the  Vatican,  whence  it  was 
copied  in  1770  by  the  historian  PAPON. 


THE    OLD    DILIGENCE.  233 

"  When  St.  Trpphime  liad  assembled  all  the  bishops  of  Gaul 
to  consecrate  the  Aliscamps  as  a  Christian  burial-ground,  no  one 
would  fulfil  the  office,  on  the  plea  of  humility.  Then  Jesus 
Christ  himself  appeared  among  them,  and  blessed  the  cemetery. 
During  the  consecration,  heavenly  music  resounded  over  the 
plain — music  so  sweet,  that  many  vestal  virgins  there  buried 
lifted  up  the  lids  of  their  tombs  to  listen  more  distinctly." 

I  need  only  add,  in  confirmation  of  the  above,  that  the  Arch 
bishop  Michael  de  Morieres,  who,  in  the  year  1203,  addressed  a 
letter  to  all  Christendom,  recalling  the  tradition,  assures  us  that 
in  his  time  heavenly  music  was  frequently  heard  floating  over 
this  city  of  the  dead. 

But  enough  of  monkish  legends:  let  me  not  close  this  chapter 
without  paying  homage  to  a  far  more  attractive  subject,  for  which 
Aries  has  for  centuries  been  celebrated — I  mean  the  wonderful 
— yea,  the  marvellous — yea,  the  transcendant  beauty  of  its  women. 
In  the  blindness  of  forgetfulness,  I  spoke  of  the  church  of  St. 
Trophime  as  the  crowning  glory  of  Aries 

But  what  are  temples  of  stone  and  mortar  compared  to 

fair  young  temples  of  flesh  and  blood — those  chosen  sanctuaries 
of  love  and  beauty  ? 

What,  0  my  hearers,  is  a  Gothic  oriel  window,  though  termed 
by  Gervasius  the  "  eye"  of  the  church,  when  compared  with  the 
black  eye  of  a  brunette,  or  its  winding  tracery  to  her  flowing 
tresses  ?  And  what  are  its  beautiful  mouldings  to  the  delicate 
moulding  of  well-formed  features  and  of  lithe  and  limber  limbs  ? 

Or  what  the  portal  of  a  church,  though  it  be  like  that  of 
Florence,  fit  to  be  the  gate  of  heaven,  compared  with  that  fairer 
portal  a  pretty  mouth  ?  What  is  a  rose-window  to  a  rosy  cheek, 
and  what  are  consoles,  though  sustaining  the  effigies  of  saints, 
compared  to  the  consolations  of  love  which  sustain  our  souls  ? 

Osculari  virgines  dulcius  est  donum — "  Sweet  is  the  privilege 
of  kissing  girls;"  and  may  the  Meister's  malediction  fall  on 
him  who  would  refuse  them  heartfelt,  chivalric  devotion  and  ad 
miration  !  Against  their  weakness,  what  strength  avails  ? 

Adam,  Scimsonem,  Lotli,  Davidem  et  Salomonem. 
F&mitta  deccpitj  quis  modo  tut 'us  crit? 

The  English  of  this  Latin,  fair  lady  reader,  is,  that  as  Adam, 
Samson,  Lot,  David,  Solomon,  in  the  plentitude  of  their  wisdom, 


234 


MEISTER    KARL. 


yielded  to  the  charms  of  your  sex,  it  is  therefore  incumbent  on 
all  moderns  less  wise  to  do  the  same.     Love  to  the  lovely ! 

And  who  knows  what  gentle  thoughts  and  melting  associations 
may  have  swum  through  the  soul  of  my  fair  lady  reader  as  she 
passed  with  me  through  some  of  the  darkened  .alcoves  of  this 
Sketch-Book  ?  Who  knows  ?  / don't— I  wish  I  did  ! 

Oh  what  sweet  forms  fair  ladies  souls  do  shroud, 
Were  they  made  seen,  and  forced  through  their  blood!* 

And  perhaps — but  no !  The  Master  dare  claim  no  reward  for 
faithfully  worshipping  the  sex,  for  it  was  his  duty.  Should  any 
feel  inclined  to  reward  him,  he  respectfully  refers  them  to  his 
"  other  self/'  Wolf  Short,  who  was  born  in  the  city  of  Philadel 
phia.  "The  Christian  children  born  in  that  place"  (saith 
Gabriel  Thomas,  in  his  "Account,"  London,  1698)  "are  gene 
rally  well  favoured  and  beautiful  to  behold.  I  never  knew  any 
with  the  least  blemish."  Of  late  years  this  freedom  from  defect 
has  extended  to  the  mental  faculties  (so  Wolf  declares) — and  to 
the  moral.  And  the  Wolf  is  rather  a  "  Christian  child"  than 
otherwise. 

Ladies — dear  ladies — pray  grant  me  one  more  "last  word." 
I  presume  that  you  don't  understand  Latin—  for 

L'enfant  qui  est  nourri  do  vin, 
Soleil  qui  luiserne  au  matin, 
La  fcmmc  qui  parlo  Latin, 
No  vicnnent  pas  a  bonne  Gn. 

The  infant  fed  on  wine  and  beer, 
The  sun  which  shines  at  daybreak  clear 
Or  lady  speaking  Latin  tongue, 
Are  never  well,  but  end  in  wrong. 

Therefore  I  must  suppose  that  you  do  not  quite  understand  what 
Flavins  Constant  inus  meant  when  he  declared,  "Mulieri  impe- 
rare  res  desperata."  I  will  tell  you.  He  meant  that  as  it  is 
impossible  to  govern  a  woman,  we  had  all  better  settle  quietly 
down  under  your  gentle  rule,  and  make  the  best  of  it ! 

And  therefore  the  Mcistcr  modestly  moves  along  the  even 
tenor  (or  baritone)  of  his  way,  much  hoping,  greatly  fearing, 
and  little  daring.  For  he  dreads,  if  he  were  venturesome  as  was 

*  Mariner.     Ihro  and  Lcander. 


THE    OLD    DILIGENCE. 


235 


HEINZ  VON  STEIN,  that  the  fate  of  that  bold  robber  might  be 
his.  And  as  this  is  no  bad  ballad,  he  will  even  end  with  it  this 
chapter  and  his  "  confidences  :" 


HEINZ   VON   STEIN. 


Es  zog  von  dannen  der  wilde, 
Gefiirchtete  Heinz  von  Stein : 

Er  zog  von  dannen  und  kehrte, 
In  einem  Wirthshaus  ein. 

Er  setze  sich  stolz  zu  Tische, 

Und  herrschte  "Bringt  mir  Weiu! 

Husch  lief  mit  Glas  und  Elasche 
Des  Wirthes  Tochterlein. 

Da  ward  ihm  ach  !  so  wehe — • 
Er  seufzt:  "0  Holde  mein! 

Wie  war's  gabst  du  ein  Kiisschen 
Dem  tapfern  Heinz  von  Stein?" 

Sie  sagte :  "  Wollt  ihr  ein  KUsschen 

Von  einem  Madel  fein, 
go  musst  Ihr  vor  alien  Dingen 

Ein  hiibsche  Junge  sein." 

Das  wurmte  den  Ritter  sehre 

In  seinem  Herzeu  drein; 
Er  grollte:  "Was  bin  ich  schuldig 

Fur  deinen  sauern  Wein?" 

Drauf  ritt  er  trotzig  beime : 

Und  kebrte  nimmer  ein : 
Das  ist  die  schaurige  Mahre 

Vom  wilden  HEINZ  VON  STEIN. 


Out  rode  from  his  wild  dark  castle, 
The  terrible  Heinz  von  Stein; 

lie  rode  by  the  door  of  a  tavern, 
And  gazed  at  the  swinging  sign. 

He  sat  himself  down  at  a  table, 
And  called  for  a  bottle  of  wine; 

Up  came,  with  the  flask  and  a  corkscrew, 
A  maiden  of  beauty  divine. 

Then  he  sighed  with  a  deep  love-longing, 
And  said — "  Oh  damosell  mine! 

Suppose  you  just  give  a  few  kisses 
To  the  val-i-ant  Ritter  Von  Stein!" 

But  she  answered — "  The  kissing  business 

Is  entirely  out  of  my  line, 
And  I  certainly  will  not  begin  it 

On  a  countenance  ugly  as  thine." 

Oh  then  the  bold  knight  was  angry, 
And  cursed  both  coarse  and  fine, 

And  asked  her  how  much  was  the  swindle 
For  her  sour  and  nasty  wine. 

And  fiercely  he  rode  to  his  castle, 
And  sat  himself  down  to  dine; 

And  this  is  the  dreadful  legend 
Of  the  terrible  HEINZ  VON  STEIN. 


236  SKETCH-BOOK   OF    ME,    MEISTER   KARL. 


CHAPTER  THE   TWENTY-SIXTH. 

IN  WHICH  THE  COURIER,  DEPARTING  FROM  HIS  PRESCRIBED 
IRREGULARITY,  DELIVERS  A  REGULAR  COURSE  OF  TWO  LEC 
TURES. 

Jl  Jamilwr  f tften  10  mu  f ato  grates. 

SUBJECT  :     A    MARRIAGE. 

In  world  there  is  no  bale  or  bliss, 
Or  whatsoever  that  it  is, 
But  at  the  last  will  overgang, 
Suppose  that  many  think  it  lang. 

Siu  EGER,  SIR  GRJEHE,  AND  SIR  GRAYE  STELE. 

MY  DEAR  FRIENDS  !  November  hath  begun — the  yellow  leaves 
rustle  around,  and  the  foot  of  Beauty,  in  her  daily  walks,  treads 
on  a  movable  and  changeable  carpet  of  that  which,  whilom,  was 
summer's  greenery.  Clouds  flit  more  frequently  at  this  season 
over  the  sky  above,  as  well  as  over  the  heaven  of  your  souls,  and 
the  ever-contented  man  can  now  frequently  sing — 

It  raineth 
God  saineth. 

And  the  mysterious  yellowish-purple  piukishness  which  lingers 
at  dewy  or  frosty  eve  over  the  western  sky,  foreshadows  gently 
the  Indian  Summer,  or,  as  the  French  term  it,  "L'Ete  de  Saint 
Martin/'  (the  summer  of  Saint  Martin.) 

It  is  heralded  by  clear  frosty  nights,  lit  by  the  far-streaming, 
brightly-beaming,  meteor-gleaming;  by  the  moon  which  shines 
nowhere  so  happily  as  o'er  our  own  fair  city;  by  the  scattering 
evening  calls  and  morning  visits,  in  which  friendships  and  ac 
quaintances,  dissolved  during  the  warm  summer-tide,  are  once 
more  united  and  confirmed;  by  the  more  frequent  advent  of 
operas,  operettas,  concerts,  musical  soirees,  dramatic  nights,  tra 
gedies,  comedies,  comediettas,  burlettas,  and  vaudevilles,  farces, 
pantomimes,  ballets,  and  other  theatrical  amusements  too  nume 
rous  to  mention — including  the  exquisitely  entertaining  volunta- 


A   REGULAR   COURSE   OP  LECTURES.  237 

ries  and  improvisations,  forming  no  part  of  the  regular  perform 
ance,  and  set  down  in  no  bills,  but  which  are  not  the  less,  on 
that  account,  universally  admired. 

Of  all  days  the  pleasantest  should  be  the  cold,  bracing,  sunny 
days  of  Autumn.  Look  into  your  hearts,  and  you  will  find  that 
more  golden  souvenirs  are  linked  to  the  chain  of  its  associations 
than  charms  to  the  chatelains  of  the  most  highly-jewelled  of  my 
auditresses. 

For  my  own  part,  ladies,  I  do  most  solemnly  affirm  that  I 
wouldn't  exchange  the  dreariest  half  of  November  for  the  sun 
niest  smiles  of  May,  nor  one  of  its  cloudy  Sundays  for  the  merriest 
matinee  of  a  dozen  winters. 

And,  having  thus  argued  you  into  a  good  humour  with  the 
season  which  is  too  late  for  peaches  and  too  early  for  camellias,  I 
take  my  leave  of  Autumna  and  proceed  to  analyze — (not  the  Ann 
Elise  to  whom  the  chemist  devoted  himself) — but  to  dissect,  in 
vestigate,  set  forth,  expatiate  upon,  and  explaterate,  or,  in  plain 
lantern  language,  matagralolize  for  your  benefit,  an  exquisite 
little  bit  of  authenticity,  which  occurred  in  Paris  just  three  years, 
three  days,  and  thirty-seven  minutes  (not  to  mention  the  four  odd 
seconds)  since.  Dating  back,  of  course,  from  the  second  at  which 
this  paragraph  meets  your  eye. 

It  is  of  a  marriage,  (you  all  like  to  hear  about  marriages,)  and 
I  believe  that  I  am  neither  unguarded  or  rash  in  my  assertion, 
when  I  state  that  it  was  of  a  gentleman  to  a  lady.  It  was  not 
the  marriage  of  your  beloved  courier,  nor  even  one  of  his  flock. 
Had  it  been  the  latter,  I  should  have,  ex  cathedra,  published  the 
banns,  and  thus  spread  myself  forth  as  a  banner.  It  was  not  the 
wedding  of  a  German,  for  the  lover  had  never  once  told  the  lady 
that  he  considered  her  "as  unattainable  as  the  stars;"  nor  of  a 
Gipsy — for  the  wedding-party  did  not  dance  in  a  hall  paved  with 
eggs  and  sugar,  as  do  the  Zincali.  If  you  are  really  curious  to 
know  what  the  couple  were,  I  may  be  permitted  to  inform  you 
that  they  were — French! 

Yes,  French.  And  the  young  gentleman  was  a  poet,  and  the 
bride  a  widow.  But  she  was 

Amiable  as  an  Angel, 
Handsome  as  an  Houri, 
Fair  as  a  Fairy, 
Sweet  as  a  Sylph, 


238  SKETCH-BOOK   OF   ME,    MEISTER   KARL. 

Graceful  as  a  Goddess, 
Peerless  as  a  Peri, 
Nice  as  a  Nymph, 
Dainty  as  a  Divinity, 
Enticing  as  an  Enchantress, 
Soft  as  a  Syren. 

Nothing  on  earth  could,  in  fact,  be  compared  to  her,  with  the 
exception  of  my  lady  readers.  Moreover,  she  had  the  reputation 
of  having  the  tin — otherwise  known  as  argong,  gelt,  spicunia, 
brass,  spoons,  ready,  needful,  or  pewter.  Some  people  term  it, 
Moss,  Buttons,  or  Dativus,  but  they  are  Germans,  who  begin  all 
things  capitally,  and  end  plurally,  yet  are  honest  hearts  withal, 
who  can  drink  with  Pedro  Grullo,  "in  folio." 

Therefore,  you  will  agree  with  me  when  I  say  that  the  poet, 
like  the  words  or  the  Germans  above  quoted,  begun  capitally  with 
such  an  excellent,  model  widow.  And  when  he  had  ended  plu 
rally  (iYZ  est,  had  become  "me  and  niy  wife")  the  Beauty  took 
him  aside,  and,  with  great  modesty,  many  tears,  and  intense  re 
luctance,  informed  him  that 

And  here  let  us  pause.  Young  ladies !  whenever  you  have 
any  such  revelations  to  make,  let  me  suggest  that  they  invariably 
come  with  greater  propriety,  through  the  medium  of  a  third  person, 
before  marriage.  There  are  some  husbands  so  lost  to  all  sense 
of  "  what's  what,"  as  to  bitterly  regret  the  absence  of  much 
which,  in  the  eyes  of  true  love,  doesn't  appear  to  be  of  the 
slightest  consequence. 

For  the  "vidder"  informed  the  husband  that  she  had  deceived 
him  on  declaring  that  her  fortune  amounted  to  sixty  thousand 
crowns,  (of  five  francs  each.) 

"Well,  darling!"  he  replied,  sealing  the  expression  with  a 
kiss — (they  were  alone,  ladies) — "well,  darling!  it  isn't  of  the 
slightest  consequence.  I  am  not  rich,  it's  true ,  but  we  can  live. 
What  if  you  are  poor  ?  Fiddle-de-diddle  !  Parbleu  !  Troun  de 
T air  1 1  Who  cares  ?  I  don't !  not  a  bit !  Haven't  you  got  all 
the  treasures  of  your  beauty  left  you  ?  These  silken  tresses  ? 
This  nose  ?  These  limbs  ?  These  teeth  ?  And  this  com 
plex " 

"Ah!"  interrupted  the  bride,  "my  colour,  my  hair,  and  my 
teeth  are  fabrications." 

"How  curious!"  cried  her  husband-lover — (ladies,  may  you 
all  get  such  a  one!) — "why,  my  own  dear  love,  how  unfortunate 


A   REGULAR    COURSE    OF    LECTURES.  239 

you've  been  !  How  I  pity  you  !  Ton  my  soul,  I  love  you  a  million 
times  better.  Poor  little  sing,  did  it  loose  its  tooscysf  I  don't 
care,  dear,  for  that.  Don't  trouble  your  head  about  such  a  trifle. 
Isn't  your  mind  left,  with  its  rich  stores  of  intellect — its  high 
soaring  genius — its — its — its — knowledge  of  cookery  and  un 
ruffled  placidity  of  temper  ?" 

"Ah,"  replied  the  bride,  who  seemed  bent  on  making  a  clean 
sweep,  or  a  clean  breast  of  it,  (it's  all  one  to  me,  which,)  "Ah  ! 
but  I'm  subject  to  Jits!" 

"Oh,  you  poor  dear!"  replied  her  compassionate  husband, 
"  how  lucky,  then,  that  I  married  you — 7  who  know  so  well 
how  to  take  care  of  such  attacks  !  Some  men  can't.  Kiss  me, 
puss!" 

Now  when  it  came  to  this,  the  widow  could  stand  it  no  longer. 
With  several  tears,  divers  embraces,  sundry  sobs,  and  quantities 
of  kisses,  she  informed  her  husband  (who  thought  that  one  of  her 
fits  was  just  coming  on  as  a  sample)  that  he  had  misunderstood 
her! 

"As  how  ?"  inquired  that  remarkably  excellent  and  immova 
ble  young  man. 

"Why,  love,"  replied  she,  "I  said  that  you  were  deceived  as 
to  my  fortune,  and  so  you  are.  It  isn't  sixty  thousand  crowns 
(of  five  francs,  or  one  hundred  sous,  or  five  hundred  centimes 
each) — but  eighty  thousand  per  annum." 

"Good!"  replied  the  husband.  "So,  then,  dear,  don't  be 
angry j  but  I  was  only  about  to  remark  that,  with  such  an  in 
come,  you  can  keep  up  a  first-rate  supply  of  paint,  teeth,  hair, 
fingers,  and  so  forth." 

"There  you're  wrong  again,"  she  answered.  "I  said  that  my 
teeth,  hair,  and  complexion  were  fabricated — and  so  they  are — 
but  the  Lord  fabricated  them  I" 

"Bravo!"  replied  the  husband.  "Not  that  I  care,  on  my  ac 
count,  for  money.  I  trust  that  my  love  goes  beyond  that,  or 
beauty  either.  But  with  a  sound  frame  and  a  fortune,  you  will 
have  so  much  less  to  suffer  from  those  painful  fits." 

"Why,  child,"  replied  his  pretty  young  wife,  "I  was  talking 
of  fits  of  love  and  convulsions  of  happiness.  You  wouldn't  have 
me  cured  of  them — would  you,  dear  ?" 

This,  ladies,  is  the  finale  of  the  wedding.  The  finale  of  our 
lecture  is  given  in  the  following  verses — • 

21 


240  SKETCH-BOOK    OF    ME,    MFISTER    KARL. 


"LAUD  THE  FAIR." 

Oh,  that  I  had  his  heart  and  hand, 
Who,  in  the  German  Fatherland, 

Long  centuries  ago, 
Won  for  himself  a  glorious  name, 
By  giving  all  to  Woman's  fame 

That  poet  could  bestow  ! 

What  better  theme  could  minstrel  ask, 
Where  seek  a  nobler,  gentler  task, 

More  flattering  to  his  pride, 
Than  to  extol  those  Spirit  Flowers, 
The  Dames — who've  blessed  this  world  of  ours, 

Since  that  old  Master  died? 

Oh,  praised  be  Woman — maid  or  wife — 
The  Aurora  of  our  future  life, 

The  Spirit  of  our  Soul  ; 
A  light  of  God  to  darkness  given, 
A  lovely  bud,  which  fell  from  heaven, 

To  grow  'neath  Heaven's  control ! 

Full  many  a  stormy  age  hath  fled 

Since  that  old  minstrel  joined  the  dead — 

A  blessing  on  his  name  ! 
The  rainbow  world  oft  changed  its  hue, 
But  still  his  words  for  her  are  true, 

And  Woman  rests  the  same. 

An  angel  in  Earth's  fetters  bound, 
The  sunlight  of  its  dreary  ground, 

The  starlight  of  its  Night; 
A  golden  flower,  a  dainty  shoot, 
Upspringing  from  Life's  grosser  root, 

As  if  for  heavenly  flight : 

Woman  !  to  me  thy  lovely  eyes 
Are  but  a  reflex  of  those  skies 

Where  all  thy  sisters  dwell. 
Oh,  Love,  in  Life  unchangeable, 
Oh,  Love,  what  Life  thy  power  can  tell ! 

My  song  is  sung — Farewell ! 


A   REGULAR   COURSE    OF   LECTURES.  241 


§n«%r  future  to  %  plus. 

SUBJECT  :     "  SPIRITUAL    KNOCKINGS." 

IT'S  a  no  use  your  knocldn  'at  the  door  any  more  ! 
It's  a  no  use  your  knockin'  at  the  door  ! 

WHO   DAT   KNOCKING? 

Au  clair  de  la  lune, 
L'aimable  Lubin; 

Frappait  chez  la  brune, 
Qui  repond  soudain, 

Qui  frappe  de  la  sorte  ? 

Au  CLAIR  DE  LA  LUXE. 

BONJOUR,  MESDEMOISELLES  !  My  compliments  to  you,  fair  au 
ditors,  and,  through  you,  to  your  mammas.  Put  no  faith  in  a  man 
who  neglects  your  maternities;  for  of  such  a  nature  is  the  hypocrite 
and  fool.  Hypocrite,  I  say;  for  how  can  he  pretend  to  be  able 
to  sincerely  appreciate  the  excellence  of  one  woman,  or  the  sex 
in  general,  who  limits  his  deference  and  devotion  exclusively  to 
the  young  and  lovely  ?  A  great  philosopher  has  declared  that  he 
who  has  studied  only  the  rudiments  of  a  science  is  ignorant  even 
of  its  rudiments  ;  and  no  man  hath  any  claim  to  true  regard  from 
a  sex  which  he  knows  only  from  its  younger  or  rudimentary  ele 
ments.  A  fool  is  he,  moreover,  since  he  is  thus  disqualified  from 
following  an  admirable  maxim,  teaching  us  that 

He  who  would  the  daughter  win 
Must  with  the  mother  first  begin  ! 

BELOVED!  the  subject  of  our  present  lecture  is  that  of  Spi 
ritual  Knockings  —  known  to  those  singular  geniuses  and  gallant 
gentlemen,  the  Rosicrucians,  as  TRARAMES,  and  defined  in  a 
tight,  little,  parchment-bound  quarto,  printed  at  Leipzig,  in  1678, 
treating  of  Magic,  Diablerie,  and  similar  trash,  as  "  Trarames 
umbra-rum  sunt  et  spectorum  invisibles  auditse  tamen  actiones  ;" 
which  signifieth,  "  Trarames  are  the  invisible  yet  audible  actions 
of  ghosts  and  spectres/'  But,  if  you,  my  gentle  auditors,  ima 
gine  that  I  intend  wearying  you  with  Trarames,  or  Rochester 
knockings,  or  spectral  scratchings,  or  theurgical  thumpiugs,  and 
similar  hobgoblinism  and  spookishness,  you  are  trimly  mistaken. 
In  a  word,  I  simply  propose  examining  into  the  nature  of  those 


242  SKETCH-BOOK    OF    ME,    MEISTER    KARL. 

spirits  which  cause  such  frequent  and  violent  knockings  at — our 
hearts  ! 

Remember,  then,  if  you  please,  that  your  lecturer  assumes,  as 
far  as  all  personal  experiences  of  this  nature  are  concerned,  to  be 
a  spotless  lamb,  who  has  had  neither  glove  of  victory  nor  mitten 
of  defeat.  The  Childe's  destiny  is  his,  and  he  can  gently  sigh 
with  Sir  Galahad — 

How  sweet  are  looks  that  ladies  bend 
On  whom  their  favours  fall ! — 

For  them  I'd  battle  to  the  end, 
To  save  from  shame  and  thrall : 

But  all  my  heart  is  drawn  above, 
My  knees  are  bowed  in  church  and  shrine — 

I  never  felt  the  kiss  of  love, 
Nor  maiden's  hand  in  mine  ! 

These  are  the  words,  dear  ladies,  of  Tennyson's  Sir  Galahad — a 
gentleman  most  inappropriately  named,  since  it  is  amply  evident, 
from  his  own  confession,  that — vulgarly  speaking — he  never  had 
a  gal.  But,  to  proceed  : 

Love — true  love — my  hearers,  is  the  passion,  sentiment,  or 
emotion,  which  causes  these  knockings  of  the  heart,  and  is,  in  a 
more  or  less  diluted  form,  experienced  by  all  the  widely-spread 
families  of  the  human  race,  except  Frenchmen,  Turks,  and  Chi 
nese.  Known  only  in  a  strange,  rough  state  to  the  ancients,  it 
subsequently  assumed  an  entirely  new  form  and  spirit.  It  was 
only  of  later  ages,  my  friends,  that  it  received,  formed,  and  be 
came  identical  with  gentleness,  courtesy,  and  all  that  is  high- 
toned,  gallant,  and  chivalric.  As  the  flower  is  ripened  into  the 
still  more  beautiful  and  glorious  fruit,  so  Love,  which  had  pre 
viously  been  but  a  splendid  passion — or  brilliant  blossom — under 
the  genial  sun  of  modern  civilization,  was  rapidly  matured  into  a 
thousand  developments,  of  which  the  world  had  previously  not 
the  slightest  knowledge.  With  the  march  of  mind,  or  progres 
sion  of  intellect,  and  hand  in  hand  with  Art,  Science,  Piety, 
and  Political  Economy,  it  rushed  onward  into  many  lands,  until, 
finally,  taking  its  way,  with  the  star  of  empire,  westward, 
assumed,  in  your  snowy  bosoms,  the  highest,  clearest,  and  most 
refined  form  which  it  has  as  yet  known. 

But  we  have  not  as  yet  defined  Love — the  primitive  cause  of 
all  these  heart-knockings ;  and  in  faith  'tis  no  easy  task.  There 
be  many  roads  to  Rome  as  well  as  a  certain  better  place  we  wot 


A   REGULAR    COURSE    OF   LECTURES.  243 

of,  and,  perhaps,  every  young  lady  now  listening  to  me  has  an 
altogether  peculiar  and  singular  definition  of  the  same.  As 
your  lecturer,  I  beg  leave  to  give  my  own  ideas  as  to  the  manner 
in  which  I  imagine  the  trial  d' amour  attacks  its  victims.  And 
this  I  do  in  the  words  of  Sir  Gruelan,  in  the  Trouveur  Lai: 

Love — sovereign  Love — mysterious  and  refined, 

Is  the  pure  confluence  of  immortal  mind; 

Chaste  union  of  two  hearts,  by  virtue  wrought, 

Where  each  seems  either,  in  word,  deed,  and  thought; 

Each  singly  to  itself  no  more  remains, 

But  one  will  guides — one  common  soul  sustains. 

That  quotation  embodies  my  own  sentiments,  and  a  remark 
able  specimen  of  fine  writing  it  is.  But  the  feminine  world  at 
large,  were  they  to  narrate  their  own  impressions  and  experience, 
would,  I  fear  me,  individually  confess  a  very  different  conception 
of  the  subject.  It  would  appear  that  the  spiritual  knockings  of 
King  Cupid  had  sounded  as  many  tones  and  semitones  on  their 
hearts  as  the  hammer  of  an  eccentric  German  musician  on  one 
of  those  curious  wooden  instruments,  termed,  I  believe,  a  xylo- 
tone.  Madame  Anatolie,  if  asked  for  her  definition  of  Love, 
would  probably  laugh,  and  refer  me  to  the  Dictionnaire  d' Amour. 
Miss  ONE  would  call  it  a  cause,  the  effect  of  which  is  an  esta 
blishment  and  carriage.  Miss  Two,  do.  Miss  THREE  regards 
it  as  a  valuable  auxiliary  in  schottisches  and  German  cotil 
lons.  Miss  FOUR,  borrowing  unconsciously  from  the  ancient 
philosopher  who  discovered  that  the  soul  was  a  tone,  would  say 
that  it  was  the  musical  sympathy  of  two  harmonious  souls;  which 
would  be,  in  fact,  the  artistic  form  of  my  own  ultra-refined  Pla- 
tonisni.  Miss  FIVE,  I  am  very,  very  sorry  to  say,  regards  it  as 

nothing  but 

A  delicate,  sly  flirtation, 

By  the  light  of  a  chandelier ; 
With  music  to  play  in  the  pauses, 
And  nobody  very  near. 

Shocking !  Miss  Six,  as  the  boon  companionship  of  two  good- 
humoured,  careless  souls,  alternately  petting  or  pelting  each  other 
incessantly  with  puns  and  bon-mots.  Misses  7,  8,  9,  10,  and  11 
believe  it  to  be  the  unbroken  and  absorbing  admiration  of  their 
personal  attractions.  Miss  TWELVE,  like  the  ancient  belle  in 
the  old  ballad,  imagines  that  the  soul  of  Love  consists  in  letting 


244  SKETCH-BOOK    OF    ME,    MEISTER    KARL. 

a  lady  have  her   own  way — and  a  very  good  way  it   is,  when 
Reason  takes  the  helm. 

Miss  THIRTEEN  is  inclined  to  think  that  pure,  disinterested 
affection  is  best  manifested  by  zealous  attention  at  the  supper- 
table,  and  its  crowning  test  displayed  in  capturing  for  her  the  most 
beautiful  bouquet — the  largest  and  finest  bon-bons — and  in  bring 
ing,  exactly  at  the  right  time  and  place,  the  first  glass  of  iced 
champagne.  (And  a  very  sensible  young  lady  she  is,  too.) 

Miss  FOURTEEN  would  find  it  difficult  to  define  her  position, 
or  explain  her  views.  Dim  visions  of  fast-looking  angels  met 
in  droves  in  fashionable  streets  of  a  Sunday  afternoon — faint 
souvenirs  of  long  rows  of  handsome  young  gentlemen,  seated 
smoking  in  dreary  continuity  before  the  first  hotels — flutter 
ing  phantasmge  of  immaculate  coats,  and  still  more  immaculate 
"ewavats,"  surmounted  by  heads  of  hair  intensely  soignee — 
the  sum  total  standing  in  church,  exquisitely  upright,  behind 
a  prayer-book  in  every  direction  around  her.  Such  are  some  of 
the  imperfect  ideas  which  swim  in  shoals  across  the  Mediterranean 
of  her  imagination.  She  has  never  as  yet  analyzed  humanity,  or 
discovered  any  difference  between  one  gent  and  another.  Her 
ideas  of  this  business  are  all  en  gros — none  en  detail. 

Miss  FIFTEEN  experienced  her  last  twinge  of  the  tender  pas 
sion  in  an  omnibus.  Such  a  nice  young  gentleman  as  he  was! 
pulled  the  check-strap  for  her  with  such  vigour  as  to  almost 
draw  driver  and  horses  through  the  hole — received  her  six 
pence  with  an  electric  thrill  of  joy — paid  the  driver,  and,  oh, 
the  chime  of  his  voice,  as  he  melodiously,  musically,  and  melli- 
fiuously  inquired,  "Ticket,  miss?"  They  bave  since  been  intro 
duced,  and  now  meet  daily  and  delightfully  in  the  same  manner. 
"For  since  that  hour  they  ride  in  cabs  no  more,"  as  Dante  re 
marks.  I  need  not  tell  you,  my  friends,  that  her  ideas  of  love 
are  all  conveyed  by  the  medium  of  a  "  bus."  These  vehicles  she 
regards  as  perambulating  Paradises,  and  the  words  "  Cinderella," 
"Gen.  Taylor,"  u  Kipp  and  Brown,  Broadway  and  Twentieth 
Street,"  as  intensely  delightful  and  spiritually  comforting  inscrip 
tions,  mysteriously  typifying,  like  Hesiod's  cosmogony,  the  birth 
of  young  Love.  Vive  I'  Omnibus  I 

Miss  SIXTEEN  believes  Love  to  be  a  plant  of  intellectual  and 
literary  growth,  which  requires  frequent  showers  of  blue  ink,  and 
refreshing  breezes  of  sonneteering  sighs,  or — to  transplant  the 


A   REGULAR   COURSE   OF   LECTURES.  245 

simile  from  the  garden  of  poetry  to  the  drawing-room  of  romance 
— she  treats  it  as  a  flower  whose  true  destiny  is — not  to  nourish 
sweetly  out  in  the  fresh,  bright  world,  in  the  brilliant  sunlight  of 
life,  but  to  be  immortalized — duly  begummed  and  poetized — 
between  the  hot-pressed  leaves  of  a  millefleur-scented  album ! 
Peste  and  malapeste ! !  Oh,  my  beautiful  friends,  beware  of 
chaining  love  with  lyrics — putting  him  to  sleep  like  an  invalid 
between  the  sheets  of  a  book,  or  binding  him  with  ballads — 

For  if  bound — he  should  only  be  bound  in  your  arms ! 

Miss  SEVENTEEN  has  been  engaged  seventeen  times,  and  conse 
quently  no  longer  attaches  any  extra  attributes  to  love  or  lovers. 
If  pressed  for  a  reply,  she  would  languidly,  sleepily,  sweetly,  and 
prettily  answer,  from  La  Rochefoucauld — "  Dans  les  premieres 
passions  les  feinmes  aiment  I'amant,  dans  les  autres  elles  aiment 
r amour."  Bless  her  dear  heart !  Yes,  ladies,  bless  her,  for  the 
flames  of  many  flirtations  have  purified  her  soul,  (this  being  a 
fire  which  the  burnt  child  never  dreads,)  and  she  now  loves  for 
true  love,  per  se. 

Miss  EIGHTEEN  has  always  and  only  flirted  at  watering-places — 
in  strange  cities — or  while  travelling.  The  marriage  contract  is 
to  her  dimly  connected  by  mysterious  ties  of  spiritual  affinity 
with  hotel  bills  and  cartes  de  diner;  and  words  of  love,  if  not 
breathed  during  a  moonlight  walk  of  the  creamiest  description 
possible,  must  of  course  be  whispered  in  a  parlour  half  full  of 
strangers,  on  the  deck  of  a  steamer,  or  in  a  railroad  car  while 
bolting  through  a  dark,  subterranean  tunnel.  Cupid  nestles, 
according  to  her  ideas,  in  a  trunk,  and  Hymen  sleeps  with  a  car- 
pet-jpag  for  a  pillow.  When  married,  she  will  start  with  her 
husband  to  summerize  in  Heidelberg  and  Baden  Baden,  with  a 
slight  detour  in  returning,  via  the  Nile  and  St.  Petersburg.  She 
also  is  a  very  nice  young  lady,  indeed,  but  labours  under  an  error 
in  supposing  that  no  promising  young  cavaliers  are  to  be  found 
about  town  during  the  winter. 

Miss  NINETEEN  will  probably  marry  a  "fast  man."  She  will 

tell  you  that was  "tight"  four  nights  since,  and  that 

had  to  carry  him  home;  that had  a  great  trine 

with  the  watchman,  and  will  narrate  all  the  particulars  of  the 
row,  (where  under  the  sun  she  learns  them  I  cannot  imagine,) 
and  wonders  how  any  gentleman  can  frequent  Pat  Hern's.  She 


246  SKETCH-BOOK    OF    ME,    MEISTER    KARL. 

is  afraid  that ptay8  too  high,  and  knows  all  the  particulars 

of  the  accident  which  happened  to in  the  run  out  on 

street.  She  is  better  "posted  up"  than  you  would  ever  suppose 
on  the  last  divorce-case,  and  is  deeply  initiated  in  the  mysteries 
of  elopements.  Like  all  true  female  amateurs  of  fast  beaux,  she 
is  strikingly  correct  in  her  own  deportment,  as  such  demoiselles 
invariably  are-,  strange  as  it  may  seem;  and  I  can  assure  the 
gentleman  who  marries  her,  that  despite  her  merry  laugh  at  his 
autobiographical  recital  of  wild  deeds,  when  the  noose  is  once 
tied,  he  will  have  to  reform,  and  no  mistake!  No  more  late 
breakfasts  and  mint-juleps,  billiards  and  Congress-water,  for 
him!  When  he  wanders,  with  his  little  cara  sposa  cosily 
hooked  to  his  leeward  arm,  he  may  drearily  glance  at  the  sin 
gle-named  signs,  recalling  suppers  that  were,  and  mournfully 
murmur,  u  Et  in  Arcadia  ego!"  Serves  him  right,  for  she  will 
make  him  infinitely  happier,  if  he  chooses  so  to  be,  than  he  ever 
was  before. 

Miss  TWENTY,  who  loves  in  social  life  alternate  storms  and  sun 
shine,  presumes  and  hopes  that  her  lover  and  husband  will  be  the 
bearer  of  intolerable  misery  and  ineffable  happiness.  Like  the 
Russian  wife,  she  will  almost  quarrel  with  her  partner  for  not 
treating  her  cruelly,  and  would,  from  her  impressions  of  human 
nature,  be  bitterly  disappointed  in  a  man  who  is  not  occasionally 
a  brute.  Like  the  French  lady,  she  would  dearly  love,  once  in 
a  while,  a  bonne  querelle  for  the  sake  of  the  subsequent  reconcilia 
tion.  Excitement  is  her  life — and  a  strange  life  it  is.  My 
friends,  there  are  many  such  in  this  world.  I  blame  no  one,  for 
Nature  gives  us  our  temperaments ;  but,  to  use  the  words  of  a 
great  moralist,  diable  rrCemporte  if  I  see  any  sense  in  it: 

Better  on  silent  seas  secure  to  sail, 

Than  tempt  the  horrors  of  the  adverse  gale. 

Miss  TWENTY-ONE  will  inevitably  be  smitten  at  a  card-party 
by  some  gentleman  as  well  versed  as  herself  in  the  History  of 
the  Four  Kings.  The  struggle  will  be  severe,  for  when  Greek 
meets  Greek  the  diable  a,  quatre  generally  ensues;  but,  finally 
vanquished,  she  will  surrender  her  heart,  exclaiming,  in  the 
affecting  words  of  the  "OPERANO  ITALIANO" — 

Iddio  !  La  gameo  is  blocked  up-o  ! 
lo  sono  beat o ! 


HUMMING    AND    WHISTLING.  247 

As  for  Mesdemoiselles  TWENTY-TWO,  TWENTY-THREE,  TWEN 
TY-FOUR,  and  TWENTY-FIVE,  they  have  no  views  of  their  own, 
but  will  experience  the  spiritual  knockings  of  Love  precisely 
in  the  manner  which  may  prove  most  agreeable  to  their  pa's, 
ma's,  aunts,  friends,  and  cousins, — agreeing  to  a  degree  with 
Miss  TWENTY-SIX,  who  only  goes  a  step  beyond — dares  not  call 
her  soul,  much  less  her  heart,  her  own — and  will  accept  the 
lover,  and  none  other,  whom  Mrs.  Grundy,  or  Mrs.  Grundy's 
grandpapa,  may  see  fit  to  appoint.  Such,  briefly,  my  friends, 
are  a  very  few  specimens  of  the  ways  in  which  the  Grand 
Auctioneer,  Cupid,  raps  with  his  hammer  on  young  hearts, 
previous  to  disposing  of  them.  Let  me  sincerely  trust  that  all 
agitations  of  this  nature  which  you  are  to  experience  may  be 
of  the  most  agreeable  nature,  conducing  only  to  the  most  fortu 
nate  results,  and  that  never — never — may  any  of  you  find  your 
selves  heart-broken  ! 


CHAPTER  THE  TWENTY-SEVENTH. 

HUMMING   AND   WHISTLING. 

WrHiSTLiNG  aloud  to  keep  his  courage  up. 
He  whistled  as  he  went  for  want  of  thought. 

Wie  sick  einer  stellt, 

Also  seine  Pfeife  gellt. — GERM.  PROVERB. 

IT  has  been  well-remarked  by  an  observant  philosopher  that 
when  the  external  world  fails  to  supply  noise,  Nature  hath  kindly 
remedied  the  deficiency  by  providing  a  mysterious  ringing  in  the 
ears — a  ringing  for  which  an  Irish  gentleman  was  wont  to  apolo 
gize  to  his  friends,  "trusting  that  the  noise  didn't  disturb  them;" 
and  so  our  minds,  when  wearied  by  a  constant  succession  of  ob 
jects,  or  the  painful  consciousness  of  one  subject,  or,  indeed,  the 
entire  want  of  either,  clutch  nervously  at  the  first  trashy  trifle, 
turn  it  over,  and,  by  constant  repetition,  strive  "to  think  it  out," 
or  exhaust  it,  and  thus  attain  the  semi-oblivious  state  similar  to 
that  caused  by  yielding  to  "a  singing  in  the  ears."  Half  the 
oaths  and  imprecations  uttered  when  alone  spring  from  a  desire 


248  SKETCH-BOOK    OF    ME,    MEISTER    KARL. 

to  benumb,  in  an  abrupt  counter-irritant,  our  consciousness  of 
some  sudden  disagreeable  thought  or  pain. 

I  have  met  with  one,  who,  at  the  early  age  of  six  years,  had 
acquired  a  singular  habit  (suggested,  we  believe,  by  a  biblical 
text)  of  thinking  "I  AM,  I  AM:  well  I  who  am  I?  but  then  J 
am,"  and  so  on,  in  weary  succession,  until  the  idea  of  existence, 
and  of  the  significance  of  all  external  objects,  was  lost  in  a  mo 
mentary  waking  stupor.  Edgar  A.  Poe,  in  one  of  his  wild  tales, 
speaks  of  one  who  would  read  over  a  sentence  repeatedly  until 
every  vestige  of  meaning  had  totally  disappeared.  Of  the  two 
instances,  we,  however,  prefer  the  former,  as  casting  more  light 
on  the  incomprehensible  ecstasis  of  Plotinus  and  the  later  mystics. 
I  need  hardly  add  that  the  boy  in  his  riper  years  read  FICHTE  ; 
it  was  his  mission. 

But  there  is  a  lighter  and  more  amusing  class  of  these  opiates, 
which  are  current  in  the  world  at  large,  and  may  be  met  at  every 
crossing.  There  is  the  little  Frenchman,  with  his  continual 
shrug  and  grimace.  Rain  or  shine,  joy  or  sorrow,  it  is  always 
the  same  shrug — the  same  grimace.  It  is  the  make-weight,  the 
fly-wheel,  the  adjuster,  of  all  his  mental  and  physical  excesses. 

There  is  a  young  lady — and  a  very  pretty,  light-hearted  young 
lady,  too — who  repeats  on  all  imaginable  occasions — 

This  world's  a  bubble, 
And  full  of  trouble, 
And  they  are  best 
Who  are  at  rest. 

There  is  the  marquis,  who  invariably  hums — 

Malbrouck  s'en  vaten  guerre, 
Mironton  miron  ton,  ton  taine  ! 

There  is  the  gentleman,  immortalized  by  Dickens,  who  found 
consolation  in  all  affliction  in 

Rumpty,  tiddity — tol  de  rido  ! 

There  is  Thackeray's  Marquis  of  Crabs,  who,  according  to 
Chawls  Yellow-plush,  " always  wissled.  I  believe  if  he'd  been 
told  that  he  was  a-going  to  be  hung  in  five  minutes,  he'd  a  only 
wissled.'7 

We  knew  a  gentleman,  who,  on  every  variety  of  occasion,  in 
variably  sung  one  verse  of  some  mysterious  lyric.  The  verse  in 


HUMMING    AND    WHISTLING.  249 

itself  was  well  enough,  but  by  dint  of  singing  it  to  a  careless, 
lilting  tune  on  all  manner  of  wild  occasions,  he  had  utterly 
perverted  its  original  meaning.  One  morning  he  sang  it  to  a 
friend  : 

And  he  who  once  hath  raised  his  eyes, 

Oh,  soul  of  love,  to  thee, 
From  that  day  forth  beneath  the  skies, 

No  other  sight  can  see  ! 

"What  do  you  think  of  that  for  poetry?"  he  once  inquired. 
"Think!"  replied  the  friend,  in  whose  mind  it  was  associated 
with  all  manner  of  reckless  fun  and  worldly  indifference,  "think! 
— why,  that  it's  the  drunkenest,  God-forsakenest  piece  of  verse 
ever  written  I" 

I  knew  a  gentleman  who  was,  during  a  voyage  to  the  West 
Indies,  exposed  for  three  days,  in  a  storm,  to  the  danger  of  in 
stant  death.  To  divert  his  mind  from  fear,  he  strove  at  times 
to  pray — at  times  to  think  on  subjects  and  scenes  far  removed 
from  the  scene  of  peril.  But  do  what  he  would,  by  night  or 
day,  there  was  one  wild  fragment  of  verse  which  continually 
buzzed  and  hummed  about  him  like  a  musquito,  driving  afar  all 
other  thought — all  prayer.  And  it  was  the  Sauf-licd,  or  drink 
ing-song,  of  Dirk  Hatteraick,  in  Guy  Mannering : 

And  three  merry  men,  and  three  merry  men, 
And  three  merry  men  were  we : 
I  on  the  land,  thou  on  the  sand, 
And  Jack  on  the  gallows-tree  ! 

"When  I  began,"  he  said,  "I  could  not  for  my  life  remember 
more  than  the  first  line ;  but  by  the  third  night,  I  had  recalled 
it  all  !" 

I  have  met  with  one  who  occasionally  took  a  stoical  glance 
at  the  world,  and  seemed  to  conclude  that  all  was  sad.  He  said 
naught  on  such  occasions,  but  sighed  forth,  "Ah,  well!"  Such 
a  doleful  "Ah,  well!"  heard  man  never.  The  spirit  of  La  Trappe 
breathed  through  every  letter,  and  its  concluding  long  breath  was 
like  a  despairing  sigh  from  the  realms  of  darkness  : 

Hope  for  a  moment  bade  the  world  farewell. 

With  many  men,  cigars  and  snuff  supply  the  intellectual 
vacuum  which  others  ingeniously  fill  up  with  verses,  sighs, 
shrugs,  whistling,  and  table-drumming. 


250  SKETCH-BOOK    OF    ME,    MFJSTER    KARL. 

I  have  heard  of  another  who  understood  not  a  word  of 
Latin,  but  had  succeeded  by  some  odd  chance  in  picking  up  the 
first  line  of  Virgil.  Henceforth,  on  every  occasion  it  became  his 
spiritual  consolation.  Was  a  pig  stolen,  or  did  he  make  a  ten- 
strike  at  ten-pins,  his  emotions  invariably  vented  themselves  in. 
the  same  hexameter.  News  being  brought  him  of  his  wife's 
death,  he  sadly  sighed;  and,  pursing  up  his  lips,  all  uncon 
sciously  repeated 

Tityre  tu  patulze  recubans  sub  tegmine  fagi. 

Such,  reader,  are  a  few  of  the  methods  by  which  the  o'ertaxed 
spirit  relieves  itself.  Myriads  of  additional  instances  might, 
doubtlessly,  be  added — for  this  is  a  matter  in  which  almost 
every  man  goes  his  own  path;  and  I  imagine  that  few  exist 
who  do  not,  in  one  form  or  another,  at  times  give  unconscious 
indications  of  mental  excess.  Wherewith  I  take  leave,  hum 
ming  my  own  favourite  refrain  : 

And  if  the  wine,  the  wine  be  sour, 

Oh,  then,  drink  Malvasie! 
And  if  my  lips,  my  lips  are  sweet, 

Then  come  again  to  me. 


CHAPTER  THE  TWENTY-EIGHTH. 

A    STORY    WHICH    ENDS    AS    IT   OUGHT. 

BALMY  zephyrs  lightly  flitting, 

Shade  ine  with  your  azure  wing. 
On  Parnassus'  summit  sitting, 

Aid  me,  Clio,  while  I  sing. 

REJECTED  ADDRESSES. 

Ruft  urn  Hilf  die  Poesei, 
Gegen  Zopf  and  Philistrei ! 

BURSCHEN  HERAUS. 

YES,  my  friends — a  story  ending  as  it  ought,  and  which  the 
Meister  trusts  may  prove  more  acceptable  to  his  fellow-travellers 
than  it  ever  did  to  himself ! 


A    STORY   WHICH   ENDS   AS    IT   OUGHT.  251 

But  it  hath  one  great  crowning  recommendation — "La  tante 
en  permettra  la  lecture  a  sa  niece!"  (The  aunt  may  conscien 
tiously  permit  her  niece  to  read  it.) 

But  I  have  yet  another  motive  for  perpetrating  the  following 
tale.  In  the  Ragionamenti  Fantastici  of  FRANCESCO  ANDRE- 
INI  DA  PISTOIA,  termed  the  Comico  Geloso,  alias  II  Capitano 
Spavento,  and  imprinted  at  Venice  in  the  year  1612,  we  find 
that,  in  constructing  a  house,  not  only  lordly  halls,  rich  libraries, 
splendid  sleeping-chambers,  gorgeous  alcoves,  admirable  armour 
ies,  and  beautiful  boudoirs  are  to  find  place,  but  also  apartments 
of  a  far  humbler  description — such  as  wood-houses,  pantries, 
kitchens,  and  other  institutions  demanded  by  our  daily  needs 
and  requirements.  And  I  quote  the  work  with  more  confidence 
since  in  it,  and  in  its  similar  contemporaries,  I  do  most  clearly 
discover  the  original  of  that  so-called  Euphemism  which,  under 
the  auspices  of  John  Lyly,  became  as  fashionable  at  the  Court  of 
Queen  Elizabeth  as  did  the  Transcendental  lingo  at  a  later  day 
under  the  care  of  Emerson,  Alcott  and  Co.,  in  Boston.  GriAM- 
BATTISTA  BASILE,  of  the  Neapolitan  Pentamerone,  and  Andreini 
da  Pistoia,  have  in  fact  the  same  relation  (or  a  much  nearer)  to 
Euphues  Lyly,  as  the  German  models  and  Carlyle  have  to  their 
American  imitators.  I  say  nothing  of  Pietro  Aretino,  La  Ye- 
niero,  and  others;  for,  though  they  afford  material  for  illustra 
tion,  I  find  nothing  to  parallel  them  in  modern  times. 

Therefore,  I,  after  doing  my  best  to  build  up  chapters  in 
every  style  of  masonry  and  architecture,  find  myself  obliged — 
fearfully  nolens  volens — to  do  something  in  the  Rococo,  frip 
pery,  filagree,  renaissance- run-to-seed  style  of  romancing.  It 
was  no  pleasant  task,  Miss  Readeress,  I  can  assure  you;  nor 
could  I  ever  have  accomplished  it,  had  I  not  first  taken  that 
apparently  needless  seventeenth-century  bite  at  11  Capitano 
Spavento! 

There  is  a  certain  Euphemism  now  wellnigh  a  century  old — 
the  language  of  souls  without  heart,  of  hearts  without  feeling,  of 
feeling  without  taste,  of  taste  without  refinement,  of  refinement 
without  delicacy — which  holds  its  own  in  our  magazines  and 
second-class  novels  with  a  tenacity  and  vitality  which  seems  to 
give  vile  promise  of  a  hateful  immortality.  Its  only  merit  is, 
that  it  never  breathes  aught  irreligious  or  impure;  and  its 
deepest  defect,  that  in  reality  it  is  atheistic  and  infamous. 

22 


252  SKETCH-BOOK    OF    ME,    MEISTER    KARL. 

Under  one  form  or  another,  the  same  accursed  De-Genlis- 
Marmontel- Jane -Porter -toast -water  is  ladled  out  to  us  by 
bucketfuls  on  all  occasions  and  for  every  sort  of  requisition. 
And  a  dreadful  majority  of  those  who  are  ever  beseeching  for 
something  new,  still  continue,  like  Warren's  lunatic,  to  carouse 
on  the  slop,  and  fancy  it  Burgundy.  When  Faustus  desired  to 
turn  back  to  piety  and  purity,  Mephistophiles,  we  are  told,  pre 
vented  it  by  ordering  a  fiend  to  present  himself  every  day, 
under  the  guise  of  a  beautiful  woman,  to  his  embraces.  And 
every  day  the  demon,  unknown  to  Faust,  assumed  a  new  female 
form.  And  so  it  is  with  you,  soulless  amateurs  of  twaddle  ! 
who  receive  with  renewed  joy  your  Lauras,  and  Miss  Mortons, 
and  Anabel  Fitz-Snivelles.  So  with  you  who  revel  in  your  Percy 
Mortimers,  De  Grevilles,  and  dashing  dandies.  It  is  always  the 
old  devil  under  a  new  guise. 

"Ring  the  bell,  sound  the  gong,  draw  the  curtain."  Here 
goes  for  a  race  after  humbug  with  the  best  of  you,  and  the  devil 
grab  the  hindmost ! 


Cecilia  de  Romigny,  a  scion  of  one  of  the  noblest  families  in 
England,  was  left  at  an  early  age  heiress  of  a  vast  estate,  and 
endowed  with  every  personal  or  intellectual  charm  which  could 
bestow  grace  or  attract  admiration.  Having  been  strictly  edu 
cated  in  a  French  convent,  and  rarely  seen  even  by  her  uncle, 
to  whose  decease  she  was  now  indebted  for  her  vast  wealth,  it  is 
needless  to  state  that  she  was  totally  ignorant  of  the  world,  and 
had  been  so  fortunate  as  never  to  have  engaged  in  any  of  those 
"  affairs  of  the  heart"  which,  however  they  may  tend  to  promote 
the  happiness  of  those  concerned  when  submitted  to  the  strict 
guidance  and  consent  of  parents  or  guardians,  can  never  prove 
other  than  detrimental  when  conducted  by  inexperienced  young 
persons  without  the  approval  of  their  legal  protectors. 

Not  that  Cecilia  de  Romigny  was  hard-hearted,  or  naturally 
insensible  to  the  power  of  the  tender  passion.  Aware  of  the 
importance  of  her  wealth  and  station  in  society,  and  sensible 
that  these  might  be  materially  improved  by  a  prudent  alliance, 
she  would  willingly  have  bestowed  her  heart  and  hand  upon 
any  one  thus  capable  of  insuring  her  ultimate  and  permanent 
welfare. 


A   STORY   WHICH    ENDS   AS    IT   OUGHT.  253 

From  this  she  was  withheld  by  the  consideration  of  a  singular 
item  in  the  will  of  her  late  uncle. 

This  was  a  bequest  of  ten  thousand  pounds  to  a  young  gentle 
man  whom  the  testator  had  known  in  his  travels  under  the 
assumed  name  of  Henry  Wilton.  This  person  had  rescued  her 
uncle,  at  the  risk  of  his  life,  when  attacked  by  robbers  in 
Calabria,  and  watched  over  him  during  a  long  illness  in  Flo 
rence.  Touched  to  the  heart  by  his  numerous  good  qualities, 
among  which  discretion,  prudence,  and  piety  shone  pre-eminent, 
he  determined  to  effect,  if  possible,  a  match  between  Wilton  and 
his  niece ;  and,  a  few  days  before  his  death,  actually  addressed 
a  letter  to  her  intimating  his  wishes  on  this  subject. 

Cecilia  had  never  seen  Henry  Wilton,  but,  of  course,  cheer 
fully  acquiesced  in  the  will  of  her  uncle.  But  an  unforeseen 
impediment  threw  itself  in  the  way.  Wilton  had  not  been 
heard  of  for  several  years ;  and,  despite  of  the  strictest  search, 
not  a  trace  of  him  was  to  be  found.  In  this  unfortunate  state 
of  affairs,  she  prudently  resolved  to  dismiss  for  the  present  all 
thoughts  of  marriage,  trusting  that  at  some  future  day  the  un 
known  favourite  might  make  his  appearance. 

There  was  also  a  clause  in  her  uncle's  will  relative  to  a  debt 
of  ten  thousand  pounds  due  to  him  from  a  young  gentleman 
named  George  Maury.  This  debt,  which  was  originally  much 
greater,  had  been  contracted  on  behalf  of  a  relative  who  had 
subsequently  cruelly  deceived  him.  By  industry  and  economy, 
he  had  succeeded  in  reducing  the  debt.  With  Maury  the  uncle 
was  personally  unacquainted,  owing  to  the  constant  residence  of 
the  former  abroad ;  nor  was  he,  indeed,  desirous  of  a  meeting 
with  him,  not  wishing  to  press  his  debtor  or  drive  matters  to 
extremes.  In  the  will  the  debt  was  forgiven  in  consequence 
of  the  upright  intentions  manifested  by  young  Maury. 

Two  gentlemen  were  seated,  engaged  in  earnest  conversation, 
in  an  apartment  situated  in  the  Faubourg  St.  Germain.  The  room 
was  neatly  ornamented  in  that  most  exquisite  of  styles  known  as 
the  Rococo,  or  Baroque.  The  doors  and  wainscot  were  covered 
with  idyllo-mythologic  carvings,  inspired  in  their  execution  by 
the  refined  taste  which  prevailed  during  the  reign  of  Louis  the 
Fifteenth.  The  walls  were  covered  with  carefully-executed 
sketches  from  the  sculptures  of  Bernini,  or  the  paintings  of 


254 


MEISTER   KARL. 


Watteau,  Boucher,  and  Van  der  WerfF,  which,  in  connection  with 
furniture  of  the  same  era,  produced  an  impression  which  might 
have  induced  the  spectator  to  imagine  (were  such  extravagant 
flights  of  fancy  permissible)  that  he  had  been  transported  back  to 
that  golden  age  of  Literature  and  Art.  At  the  extremity  of  the 
room  stood  a  well-filled  and  elegantly-gilt  bookcase,  whose  top 
was  further  ornamented  with  a  collection  of  Dresden  porcelain 
curiosities  and  the  busts  of  Pope  and  Boileau.  Not  the  slightest 
trace  of  the  barbarous  Gothic  taste,  or  of  the  romantic  and  extra 
vagant  Germanism,  so  ridiculously  popular  at  the  present  day, 
was  to  be  discerned  in  this  elegant  sejour  of  taste  and  refinement. 

"I  understand,  my  friend/'  said  the  younger  of  the  gentlemen 
to  his  companion — a  remarkably  handsome  man,  whose  every 
movement  was  characterized  by  that  imposing  formality  and  cere 
monious  hauteur  which  seems  unfortunately  destined,  at  the 
present  day,  to  be  soon  swept  away  among  the  neglected  relics  of 
things  that  were — "I  understand  that  you  are  about  to  undertake 
a  voyage  to  England — the  land  of  our  birth !" 

"Such  is,  indeed,  my  intention,"  replied  the  elder;  "and 
having  been  informed,  by  my  London  correspondent,  of  the  death 
of  my  creditor,  Mr.  Romigny,  I  propose,  when  there,  entering 
into  some  final  arrangement  with  the  heirs  regarding  the  debt." 

"Are  you  as  yet  acquainted  with  the  final  disposition  of  his 
property?" 

"I  am  not.  At  one  time,  travelling  under  my  assumed  name 
of  Henry  Wilton,  I  became  acquainted  with  a  Mr.  Romigny, 
who  might  possibly  have  been  my  creditor  himself.  But  the 
affair  of  the  debt  compelled  me  to  be  silent ;  and  I  forbore  to  as 
certain.  There  are  many  of  the  same  name;  and  this,  I  am  in 
clined  to  think,  was  another." 

We  imagine  that  it  would,  after  this,  hardly  be  necessary  to 
inform  our  readers  that  Mr.  Wilton  and  Mr.  Maury  were  one  and 
the  same  person. 

Cecilia  de  Romigny  sat  in  her  boudoir,  touching  with  skilful 
hand  her  lute,  whose  awakened  chords  added  yet  another  charm 
to  the  delicately  modulated  intonations  of  her  dulcet  voice.  Her 
gong  was  a  plaintive,  simple  lay : 

The  evening  winds  are  sighing, 
And  Mary  sits  alone ; 


A   STORY   WHICH   ENDS   AS   IT   OUGHT.  255 

She  sighed — the  evening  breezes 
Sighed  in  the  selfsame  tone. 

And,  as  the  breeze  was  sighing, 

There  sat  the  fair  Marie  : 
She  heard  its  gentle  whisper — 

It  sighed — aud  so  did  she  ! 

And  as  the  evening  breezes 

Sighed  in  the  selfsame  tone, 
There  sat  the  gentle  Mary— 

And  Mary  sat  alone. 

A  knock  was  heard,  and  her  favourite  page  entered.  "Permit 
me,  madam,  to  announce  a  gentleman,  and  to  apologize  for  my 
faithless  memory,  which  has  failed  to  retain  his  name/' 

The  gentleman  entered.  At  the  first  glance,  a  blush  rose  to  the 
cheek  of  Cecilia;  for  she  could  not  fail  to  detect  in  the  noble 
form  before  her  the  traits  of  Henry  Wilton,  as  described  by  her 
uncle.  Ere  he  could  recover  from  the  astonishment  into  which 
her  transcendant  beauty  had  thrown  him,  she  spoke — 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  you,  sir ;  we  have  long  sought  for  you ;  and 
are  now  ready  to  give  you  your  deserts." 

But  the  gentleman,  to  her  astonishment,  appeared  any  thing 
but  gratified  at  this  intelligence. 

"I  am  aware,  madam,"  he  said,  "that,  in  coming  to  England, 
I  have  risked  my  personal  liberty  •  but,  I  am  here  with  the  in 
tention  of  sacrificing  all  I  own,  to  the  last  farthing,  in  the  liquida 
tion  of  my  debts." 

"Gracious  heaven  !"  exclaimed  Cecilia,  fairly  bewildered,  "are 
you  then  Mr.  Wilton,  or  Mr.  Mauiy?" 

"  Miss  de  Romigny — I  am  both  Mr.  Wilton  and  Mr.  Maury." 

Both  burst  into  tears  ! 


The  village  bells  were  ringing  a  merry  marriage  peal.  Throngs 
of  happy  peasants,  in  holiday-attire,  were  seen  wending  their 
way  to  the  hall.  Hogsheads  were  set  running,  and  beeves  were 
roasted  whole ;  for  Cecilia  de  Romigny  had  wedded  Mr.  Henry 
Wilton — alias  MR.  MAURY! 


25G  SKETCH-BOOK   OF   ME,   MEISTER   KARL. 


CHAPTER  THE  TWENTY-NINTH. 

REFRAINS. 

Summer  Pgljt  in  tin  €%* 

REFRAIN    NO.  1. 

THE  city  is  not  without  its  charms  even  in  summer — the  hot, 
stifling  summer,  when  floods  of  scorching  light  roll  back  in  fierce 
reflection  from  whitened  walls  and  cedar  roofs.  For  over  the 
city,  as  over  all  this  broad  world  of  towns  and  towers,  mountain, 
forest,  and  sea,  falls  the  slowly  darkening  eventide,  and  over  it, 
as  over  the  bark  of  the  far-sailing  mariner,  shine  the  stars. 
Pleasant  is  the  silent  summer  night  in  the  city — for  it  recalls 
the  vanished  memories  of  hours  long  passed  away ! 

The  noise  and  tumult  of  the  busy  day  is  hushed,  and  voices  in 
the  street  are  few  and  far  between,  like  the  hum  heard  in  the 
forest  after  the  roar  of  the  storm-wind  has  swept  by.  Here  and 
there,  from  half-screened  windows,  flashes  forth  a  bright  light, 
and  the  ringing  laugh,  or  the  sweet  notes  of  the  piano,  delay  the 
footsteps  of  the  promenader.  Pleasant  is  the  silent  summer 
night  in  the  city — for  it  recalls  the  vanished  memories  of  hours 
long  passed  away ! 

In  the  city,  as  in  the  fair  country,  the  evening  wind  bears  on 
its  wings  sweet  perfume  of  flowers.  The  rose  and  the  linden, 
the  honeysuckle  and  the  grape,  hang  in  myriads  of  little  gardens. 
Close  thine  eyes — thou  art  again  in  the  Castle  Garden  of  Heidel 
berg,  thou  loitcrest  "unter  den  Linden"  in  merry  Berlin,  or  art  by 
the  Villa  lleale  of  Naples !  Pleasant  is  the  silent  summer  night  in 
the  city — for  it  recalls  the  memories  of  hours  long  passed  away ! 

I  am  in  the  crowded  concert — the  voice  of  the  sweet  singer 
rises  above  the  waves  of  the  orchestra,  like  Aphrodite,  the  Beau 
tiful,  above  the  roaring  sea.  From  the  concert  I  go  forth  to  the 
silent,  moonlit  street,  and  wander  homeward,  like  the  deep-souled 
poet,  "  alone  with  the  niglit."  Pleasant  is  the  silent  summer 
night  in  the  city — for  it  recalls  the  memories  of  hours  long 
passed  away ! 


REFRAINS.  257 

Late,  late  in  the  night,  we  pass  by  the  silent  homes  where 
those  we  love  dwell.  Do  their  ears  catch  the  sound  of  our  foot 
steps,  or  are  we  floating  dimly— sweetly  —  in  their  dreams? 
Does  the  last  flash  of  the  light  in  an  upper  window  send  a  thrill 
to  thy  soul  ?  Pleasant  is  the  silent  summer  night  in  the  city — for 
it  recalls  the  vanished  memories  of  hours  long  passed  away ! 

Can  this  be  the  spot  where  I  stood  a  few  hours  since,  in  all 
the  glare  and  light  of  noontide  ?  And  in  after  years,  when  from 
the  twilight  of  life  a  slowly  darkening  eternity  closes  over  me, 
will  its  approach  be  as  cool  and  pleasant  to  my  soul,  when  I  re 
member  the  noonday  of  my  youth?  Pleasant  is  the  silent  sum 
mer  night  in  the  city — for  it  recalls  the  vanished  memories  of 
hours  long  passed  away! 


of 

REFRAIN    NO.  2. 

IT  is  dark  when  the  honest  and  honourable  man  sees  the  re 
sults  of  long  years  swept  cruelly  away  by  the  grasp  of  knavish, 
heartless  adversity.  It  is  dark  when  he  feels  the  clouds  of  sor 
row  gather  around,  and  knows  that  the  hopes  and  happiness  of 
others  are  fading  with  his  own.  But  in  that  hour  the  memory 
of  past  integrity  will  be  a  true  consolation,  and  assure  him,  even 
here  on  earth,  gleams  of  the  light  in  heaven ! 

It  is  dark,  when  the  dear  voice  of  that  sweet  child,  once  so 
fondly  loved,  is  no  more  heard  around  in  murmurs.  Dark,  when 
the  little  pattering  feet  no  more  resound  without  the  threshold, 
or  ascend — step  by  step — the  stairs.  Dark,  when  some  well- 
known  melody  recalls  the  strain  once  oft  attuned  by  the  childish 
voice,  now  hushed  in  death !  Darkness,  indeed — but  only  the 
gloom  which  heralds  the  dayspring  of  immortality  and  the  infinite 
light  of  heaven ! 

It  is  dark,  when,  in  later  life,  we  tread  the  scenes  of  long- 
vanished  pleasures — pleasures  pure  and  innocent,  whose  memory 
has  often  thrilled  our  soul — whose  voices,  like  those  of  some 
phantom-band,  are  ever  sweet  and  sad;  but  never  sadder  than 
when  chiming  with  the  after  echo — "We  return  no  more!" 
Ring  as  ye  will,  sweet  voices,  there  are  loftier  joys  awaiting  in 


258  SKETCH-BOOK    OF    MK,    MKJSTKR    KARL. 

the  golden  Eden-Land,  which  lies  beyond  the  sunset  of  life,  and  is 
gladdened  by  the  light  above,  in  he.ivcn ! 

It  is  dark — very  dark — when  the  grim  hand  of  sickness  has 
passed  fearfully  over  us  with  its  deathly  magnetic  stroke,  and 
left  behind  the  life-enduring  sorrows  of  blindness,  decrepitude, 
or  debility.  It  is  dark — sadly  dark — when  we  are  neglected  for 
the  fair  and  comely  who  abound  in  this  gay  and  heartless  world. 
Cheer  up,  thou  poor  sufferer,  for  there  be  those  among  the 
angels  who  love  thee,  and  thou  wilt  yet  shine  fair  as  they,  when 
touched  by  the  light  above,  in  heaven ! 

It  is  dark  in  the  heart  of  man  all  over  this  fair,  green  world. 
It  is  dark  beneath  the  noonday  sky — dark  in  the  sunray,  the 
moonbeam,  the  starlight.  But,  for  the  true  heart  and  trusting 
soul,  who  lives  in  the  life  of  love  and  gentleness,  there  beameth 
ever  a  light  of  joy  from  Heaven ! 


§e  Mise  in  lime. 

REFRAIN    NO.  3. 

ARE  her  eyes  black  and  sparkling — her  hands  small  and  soft — 
her  voice  musical  and  bewitching?  Does  the  sidelong  glance  of 
those  long  eyes  bewilder  thy  soul  ?  Does  the  accidental  touch 
of  that  hand  bring  a  strange  pleasure?  Dost  thou  scan  the 
undulations  of  that  lithe  form  with  unwonted  care?  Wouldst 
thou  fain  bury  thy  cheeks  in  those  perfumed  tresses !  This  may 
indeed  capture  Love,  but  never  retain  him.  Beware  her  charms 
— be  wise  in  time ! 

Is  her  wit  brilliant  and  apt?  Has  she  a  ready  jest  for  every 
chatterer,  a  keen  reply  to  all — saving  only  delicate  and  grateful 
compliments  for  thee?  Does  she  bear  herself  confidently  where 
weaker  minds  would  sink  ?  Can  she  flatter  thy  weaknesses,  and 
attract  thy  deepest  admiration  ?  Is  she  learned  in  every  music, 
even  to  that  of  sighs  ?  Can  she  speak  every  language,  even  to 
the  language  of  Love  ?  Can  she  paint  a  loving  heart — a  beauti 
ful  future.  Beware  the  charmer — be  wise  in  time? 

Has  wealth  showered  over  her  its  golden  blessings?  Would 
the  gift  of  her  hand  bring  with  it  affluence  and  comfort — the 
assurance  of  a  life  of  indolence  and  pleasure — the  envy  of  many, 


YANKEE    STORIES.  259 

the  hollow  friendship  of  all  ?  Ah  !  beware  lest  the  sweet  wine 
be  tinctured  with  a  venom,  which,  like  the  old  poison  of  Milan, 
can  infuse  a  life-enduring  torture  in  thy  veins  !  Beware,  lest  the 
key  of  the  treasury,  like  that  of  Di  Carrara,  shoot  the  needles 
of  remorse  to  thy  soul !  Beware  the  gilded  bait,  when  the  gilding 
is  its  only  charm,  and  be  wise  in  time ! 

Dost  thou  love  because  she  has  known  thee  from  early 
childhood — because  it  is  the  will  of  others  who  love  ye  both 
— because  ye  have  met  and  seen  much  together  in  wild  or 
adventurous  travel  in  distant  lands?  Pleasant  indeed  are  such 
ties;  they  speak  to  the  soul  like  the  voice  of  a  guardian  angel, 
who  wills  that  such  love  shall  be.  Yet  even  this  will  not  insure 
thee  certain  or  lasting  happiness,  and,  ere  thou  yieldest,  reflect — 
and  be  wise  in  time ! 

There  is  a  love  which  cometh  not  of  any  of  these — a  love 
which  is  fairer  than  beauty,  deeper  than  wit — though  it  were  of 
the  soul,  brighter  and  more  precious  than  gold,  and  tenderer  than 
any  earthly  tie.  There  is  a  love,  sanctioned  by  true  sympathy  of 
soul,  and  guided  in  its  course  and  made  immortal  by  unwearied 
watching,  by  reason,  and  by  true  wisdom.  And  when  thou  hast, 
after  long  search  or  by  strange  fortune,  met  with  this  love,  be 
thankful  that  thou  wert  patient,  and  that  thou  hast  been  wise  in 
time. 


CHAPTER   THE    THIRTIETH. 

YANKEE    STORIES. 

IT  has  more  than  once  happened  to  Meister  Karl,  during  his 
tourifications,  trapesings,  tramps,  trudges,  and  travels  through 
this  wavy  and  windy  world,  to  be  blown  and  thrown  into  many  a 
canny  country  corner  of  good  old  New  England.  He  has  seen  a 
Thanksgiving  family-festival  in  all  its  glory,  and  taken  part  in  a 
Fast-Day  which  was  a  fast  day  and  no  mistake, — "one  of  the 
days  we  read  of,"  when  there  is  more  steaks  and  stews  than  star 
vation,  more  preying  than  preaching — where  folks  were  thank 
ful  and  merry  withal, — albeit  there  are  many  Fast-Days  to  the 
Eastward  which  are  kept  solemnly  enough.  And  there  are  cer- 


260  SKETCH-BOOK    OP   ME,    MEISTER   KARL. 

tain  families  which  compound  on  this  day  between  fasting  and 
feasting  by  eating  a  sort  of  tea-dinner,  rather  late  for  the  one 
meal  and  rather  early  for  the  other,  yet  combining  all  the  special 
excellencies  of  both.  And  it  was  one  Fast  evening,  after  such  a 
meal,  that  I  heard  the  following  stories,  which  I  have  since  com 
mitted  to  paper,  and  now  place  in  this  my  Skctch-Book,  that 
New  England  may  not  be  forgotten  amid  my  records  of  the  merry 
memories  of  the  past. 

The  first  of  these  stories,  which  I  give  in  nearly  the  same 
words  in  which  I  first  heard  it  narrated,  is  one  of  a  bear-hunt — a 
by-no-means  unfrequent  occurrence  in  the  wilder  districts  of 
Yankee-Land : 

ptMafe'j  Star-Kant. 

"  DID  yeu  ever  hearn  tell  of  my  bear-hunt  up  to  Madawasky  ? 
No!  Sin  and  sugar!  where  were  you  brung  up?" 

Such  was  Jedediah  Claflin's  expression,  as  he  leisurely 
stretched  out  his  legs  in  the  bar-room  of  the  "  Cockroach  on 
Cratches,"  and  stared  at  his  auditors,  as  if  not  to  know  him,  and 
all  thereunto  pertaining,  were  to  be  themselves  unknown  to  the 
last  fraction  of  a  degree. 

"Neaou,  Jedediah,  jest  yeu  tell  us  all  about  it!"  said  Sympa 
thy  Bullard,  the  bright  daughter  of  the  landlady.  "It's  sartin 
fust-rate,  ef  yeu  tell  it." 

The  compliment  was  not  lost  on  Jedediah,  and  with  a  long, 
loving  leer,  and  the  eccentric  exclamation  of — "Yeu  'tarnal 
critter!"  he  "propelled"  on  the  following  story: 

"Yeu  see,  Uncle  Si,  he  had  a  haouse  and  a  pesky  big  piece  of 
woods  up  to  Madawasky,  a  reasonable  ways  from  the  frontier. 
Naow  there  was  me  and  Cuzzin  Ephe,  and  Royal  Parkins,  used 
to  go  up  and  get  in  wood  for  the  old  feller,  and  great  times  we 
used  to  have — mind,  I  tell  yeu — for  he  hadn't  nobody  but  a  Pe- 
nobscot  'senep' — that's  'a  he-Injun,  yeu  know — and  the  senep 
was  a  'cute  boy,  but  he  wasn't  everybody,  and  couldn't  reckon  for 
mor'n  one,  as  times  went !" 

A  long  puff  of  cigar-smoke  ended  the  sentence  which  com 
memorated  the  senep's  abilities,  and  the  auditors  whiffed  like 
wise;  and  the  wind  which  was  whistling  about,  and  without  the 
windows,  gave  an  extra  sigh  in  sympathy. 


YANKEE    STORIES.  261 

"Wai — one  morn'n  we  were  up  among  the  trees,  makin'  the 
chips  fly  like  hornets  arter  a  skule-gal,  when  I  noted  the  senep 
prick  up  his  ears  like  a  filly  in  fly-time,  and  grunt  like  an  old 
sow  when  she  heers  swill  runnin'.  I  didn't  say  nauthin' — but 
mind,  I  tell  ye  I  never  heerd  that  senep  grunt  but  what  some- 
thin'  come  of  it,  and  sometimes  twice  as  much.  So  I  went  on 
choppin'  just  as  regular  as  a  horse  chawin',  when  the  fust  thing 

I  knew,  the  senep  up  head  and  grunted  again.  I couldn't 

hold  in  no  longer — 

" '  Beans  and  brimstone !'  sez  I, '  what's  in  the  wind  naow/  And 
the  senep  didn't  say  nothing  but  leaned  on  his  axe  and  looked 
up  to  the  clouds,  as  ef  he  was  called  fur  and  couldn't  cum. 
Bimeby  he  comes  down  from  prospectin'  arter  his  mansion  in  the 
skies,  and  sez — 

" '  Uh ! — me  spec  bear/ 

"  With  that  he  went  on  choppin' — and  mind,  I  tell  yeu,  that 
axe  of  his'n  run  jest  as  fast  as  cider  when  it's  bust  the  bung- 
hole. 

" l  Where  is  the  bear,  you  infernal  heathen?'  sez  Royal  Parkins, 
sez  he. 

"The  senep  was  agoin'  to  answer,  and  say  that  he  wasn't  a 
heathen,  (they'd  made  a  Catholic  on  him  up  to  Canady,)  but  he 
hadn't  got  no  further  than  'Uh,'  when  we  heerd  jest  such  an 
other  grunt  coniin'  out  of  the  tree  I  was  choppin'  on;  and  I 
thought,  at  fust,  I'd  broke  into  some  Injun's  winter-quarters, 
and  that  he  was  answerin'  senep  in  his  own  tongue.  Fust  thing 
I  know'd,  there  was  an  everlastin'  big  graowl,  and  ker-slop  cum 
a  bear  right  daown  among  us.  Ef  yeu  ever  did  see  a  craowd 
fetched  up  into  etarnal  scatteration,  yeu'd  a  seen  it  then,  and  no 
mistake — mind,  I  tell  yeu  ! 

"Senep  was  the  fust  man  to  gather  up,  and  he  made  at  the 
bear  with  his  axe,  as  if  there  warn't  grace  enough  agoin'  to  save 
him.  Cuzzin  Ephe,  he  put  arter  Senep  and  Royal,  and  I  arter 
Ephe.  When  the  bear  found  that  every  man's  hand  was  agin 
him,  he  scuttled  off  and  went  up  an  oak-tree,  jest  as  easy  as  gin 
and  sugar.  He  brung  up  in  the  crotch,  and  sot  there  turnin'  up 
his  nose  and  growlin',  jest  as  ef  he'd  got  among  common  people. 

•'  Wall,  we  chopped  away,  till  I  thought  the  tree  was  agoin'  to 
break  off  short  as  a  goat's  tail.  The  bear  he  begun  to  teter,  and 
we  cleared  the  track  to  be  daown  on  him,  when  the  fust  thing. 


262  SKETCH-BOOK   OF   ME,    MEISTER   KARL. 

daown  he  come  chewallop  on  us.  Royal  tit  him  an  almighty  lick 
with  the  back  of  the  axe,  but  he  didn't  mind  it  no  more'n  nothin', 
and  broke  off  for  tree  number  three.  'Twant  no  tree  nuther,  for 
all  there  was  left  of  it  was  a  big  chunk  of  an  old  hollow  stump. 
Daown  the  beast  slipped  into  the  log,  like  a  ramrod  into  a  shot 
gun. 

"Ephe  and  Royal  begun  cuttin'  away,  and  Senep  couldn't  do 
nawthin'  else,  so  he  kept  a-pitchin'  stuns  and  chips  ento  the 
stump,  till  I  railly  thought  he'd  wedge  the  critter  in  alive,  be 
yond  redemption.  But  he  hadn't  no  patience,  and  'fore  we  knew 
what  we  were  'bout,  out  the  devil  come,  tarin'  arter  us  madder'n 
a  bull  among  bumble-bees.  I  never  did  see  such  a  ragin'  dragon, 
nor  the  rest  on  em'  nuther;  so  we  all  agreed,  without  consulting 
to  flee  from  the  wrath  to  come,  behind  a  wood-pile  hard  by. 
Senep  was  the  fust  man  to  right  about  face  with  his  axe. 

11 '  Cuzzin  Ephe,'  sez  I,  daown  among  the  logs. 

" i  I'm  a-hearin',  Jedediah,'  sez  he. 

" ( Feller-countrymen,'  sez  I, '  let's  up  and  at  'em.  A  little  more 
grape,  Cap'n  Bragg!' 

"With  that  we  recovered,  and  turned  on  the  inimy.  The 
bear  felt  as  fine  as  a  fiddler,  and  as  full  of  fight  as  Tom  Walker's 
wife  did  when  she  wrastled  with  the  devil.  Ef  you  ever  did  see 
a  fight,  it  was  in  them  days.  The  bear  hit  Senep  one  lick,  and 
barked  his  leg  worse' n  scalin'  off  the  kiver  of  a  pot-pie,  but  the 
Injun  wouldn't  do  any  thing  but  give  one  grunt,  and  that  was 
more  fur  grief  at  tarin'  his  old  tow  pants  than  fur  his  hide. 
Ephe  laid  into  him  with  his  axe  as  regular  as  a  mill-wheel,  but 
didn't  help  much  nuther,  till  the  Senep  run  and  brung  a  likely- 
sized  pole  that  was  half-way  log.  Slump  he  let  it  come  daown 
onto  the  bear's  neck,  and  the  fust  thing  I  knowed,  Royal  was 
settin'  onto  one  eend,  and  Ephe  on  t'other,  jest  as  easy  as  grease, 
with  the  old  bear  a-squealin'  like  seven  singin'  skules. 

"I  cort  hold  of  the  critter's  hind-legs,  and  ef  I  ever  had 
trouble  a-holdin'  on,  et  was  then.  But  Senep  cum  up  with  his 
axe.  When  the  bear  seen  him,  he  grunted  agin,  and  Senep  be 
gun  a  cussin'  of  him  in  Injun.  When  the  bear  heerd  that,  he 
gin  reight  up,  and  Senep  knocked  him  in  the  head  straight-wise. 

11 '  Ugh/  said  Senep,  'my  grandfather  killee  he  grandfather,  my 
father  killee  he  father,  and  now  me  telle  him  that  me  killee  him 
— he  make  sick  right  off.'" 


YANKEE    STORIES.  263 

The  general  astonishment  of  the  audience,  and  the  "dew  tell" 
of  Miss  Sympathy,  gratified  Jcdediah  not  a  little.  And  as  the 
conversation  once  more  went  on,  and  the  wind  roared  again  and 
sighed  without,  he  turned  to  his  neighbour  the  squire,  and  said — 

"Fact — I  always  heerd  that  a  bear  could  talk  with  an  Injun; 
but  I  never  believed  it  afore." 


0f  Salem. 

FOR  a  long  time  Meister  Karl  believed  the  following  to  be  an 
original  and  ancient  Yankee  story — a  belief  which  was,  however, 
greatly  shaken  by  the  discovery  of  a  German  proverb,  older  than 
New  England  itself,  or,  at  least,  older  than  the  Pilgrim  settle 
ment.  The  proverb  alluded  to  being,  Ich  strafe  mein  Weib  mit 
guten  Worten  sagte  jencr  Bauer,  da  warf  er  ihr  die  Bibel  an  den 
Hals — "I  punish  my  wife  only  with  good  words,  said  the  peasant, 
and  threw  the  Bible  at  her  neck."  But — what  is  written  is 
written,  and,  though  forgotten,  may  not  be  lost : 

Put  up  your  whittling — put  away  your  knives, 
And  hear  my  story,  you  with  scolding  wives  ! 

Far  in  the  land  where  wooden  nutmegs  grow, 
And  codfish  dealers  loud  their  trumpets  blow  ; 
Where  liquor  laws  and  pumpkins  never  fail  'em, 
A  deacon  lived — hard  by  the  town  of  Salem  : 
A  man  well  known  for  his  extreme  sobriety, 
Also  for  his  sharp  dealings  and  his  piety. 

This  deacon  had  a  wife — a  comely  creature, 
Well  shaped  in  form  and  mighty  nice  in  feature; 
A.  No.  1,  in  every  thing  reported, 
And  so  the  deacon  found  her — while  he  courted  ; 
But  after  marriage,  madam  proved  a  tartar, 
And  used  her  pious  husband  like  a  martyr. 

The  best  of  specs  oft  turn  out  half  a  swindle  ; 

The  deacon's  hopes  and  love  began  to  dwindle ; 

The  prettiest  pups  too  often  wo  find  fleas  on  ; 

The  deacon  wished  to  bring  his  wife  to  reason ; 

But,  though  she  slapped  his  face,  he  never  whipped  her, 

"For  that,"  said  he,  '"'was  dead  against  the  Scrfpter." 

But  to  the  minister  he  went  his  way, 
To  state  the  case,  and  hear  what  he  could  say; 
23 


264  SKETCH-BOOK   OF   ME,    MEISTER   KARL. 

To  show  the  wounds  received  from  his  Elizn, 
And  find  some  Christian  method  to  chastise  her. 
He  wish'd  to  whip  the  Old  One  round  the  stump, 
But  didn't  see  quite  how  the  cat  would  jump. 

The  parson  gave  that  counsel  which  all  spouses 
Inclined  to  scold  should  pin  up  in  their  houses: 
"  Seek  only  with  good  ivord*  your  wife  to  better, 
And  if  she  scolds  away,  why,  then,  just  let  her. 
Anger  with  anger  well  wo  know  must  jibe  ill; 
Chastise  her  with  good  words — they're  in  the  Bible." 

A  sudden  light  broke  in  upon  the  deacon  ; 

He  learn'd  off-hand  what  some  would  think  a  week  on; 

As  one  small  match  can  light  great  'lumiuation, 

So  one  small  wrinkle  makes  great  rumination; 

In  all  his  nerves  it  thrilled  like  an  elixir : 

"  Chastise  with  word* !     Jemima  !  how  I'll  fix  her!" 

As  ho  his  much-loved  home  at  last  was  nearing, 
The  following  phrases  burst  upon  his  hearing; 
"  You  all-fired  lazy,  nast}',  dirty  sinner  ! 
Is  this  the  way  you  make  your  wife  wait  dinner?" 
And,  entering,  his  head  received  a  stroker 
From  that  light  implement,  the  kitchen  poker. 

At  other  times  her  spouse  had  sought  the  distance, 
But  now  his  wrath  was  up — he  vowed  resistance; 
"  Chastise  her  with  good  words  !— just  wait  a  minute  ! 
Where's  the  big  Bible  with  the  good  words  in  it?" 
Full  at  his  wife  the  brass-bound  tonio  he  sped, 
And  knock'd  her  o'er  the  table,  'bout  half  dead. 

Reader,  my  stick  is  whittled — story's  over, 
And  you  may  go  to  grass,  and  feed  in  clover  ; 
But  just  note  this,  ere  all  the  tale  is  ended, 
The  deacon's  wife  recovered  and  amended. 
Now  you  may  lay  this  volume  on  the  shelf, 
And,  if  you  choose,  go  and  reform  yourself. 


&  f tpni  rf 

THE  following  legend  is  one  of  that  peculiar  description  which 
admits  of  no  alias,  and  consequently  compels  the  calling  an  indi 
vidual  by  his  right  name,  in  print, — a  highly  illegal  and  dangerous 
proceeding.  I  believe  that  there  arc  few  Marblcheaders  who 
are  not  familiar  with  the  tale  : — 


YANKEE    STORIES.  265 

'Tis  known  that  in  the  town  of  Marblehead 
The  girls  are  pretty,  but  the  hoys  ill-bred  ; 
Besieging  wand'ring  wayfarers  for  money  : 
"Give  us  a  cent,  gaul  darn  it,  or  I'll  stone  ye !" 
Thus  matters  stood  some  forty  years  or  so ; 
Nor  were  they  greatly  changed  a  week  ago. 

Now,  in  this  town 
Of  base  renown, 

There  dwelt  an  individual  named  MANN,  who 
Being  wealthy,  always  dressed  in  garments  bran  new. 
And  as  his  friends  and  near  relations 
All  occupied  distinguished  stations, 
His  brother  having  held  the  sheriffalty, 
He  kept  his  head  great  ways  'bove  commonalty. 
Familiar  treatment  he  would  ne'er  permit, 
Yet  was  a  man  withal  endowed  with  wit. 

It  happened  once,  when  tired  of  daily  trading, 
That  in  the  country  MANN  went  promenading, 
To  gaze  upon  the  fields  of  wheat  and  barley, 
And  this  he  did  all  in  the  morning  early. 
To  watch  the  blooming  bean  and  new  potater, 
And  recreate  his  soul  with  smiling  natur. 

While  walking  thus,  (attend  to  me,  I  bid  you  all,) 
On  the  high-road  he  met  an  individual, 

Peeping  and  creeping, 

A  raving  lunatic,  just  'scaped  from  keeping ; 
Rattling  his  chain,  and  shouting  like  demented, 
Pleased  that  his  keeper  ho  had  circumvented. 

At  such  a  sight,  MANX,  you  may  s'pose,  was  frighten'd; 
His  heart  seem'd  bursting,  and  his  neckcloth  tighten'd; 
The  very  air  around  him  seem'd  to  thicken, 
For  well  he  knew  he'd  shortly  get  a  lickin'. 

The  lunatic  perceived  the  fear  he  stood  in, 

"  Come  on,"  quoth  he,  "  I'll  mash  you  liko  a  puddin', 

Cut  you  to  chowder, 

Grind  you  to  powder, 
Give  you  a  touch  of  all  life's  earthly  ills, 
From  being  throttled,  down  to  paying  bills." 

"  Hero  is  a  scrape." 
Thought  MANN,  "  and  no  escape ! 
But  words,  sometimes,  they  say,  will  parsnips  butter," 
And  thus,  with  trembling  voice,  he  'gan  to  stutter. 

"  Now,  say,  what's  the  use 

Of  all  this  abuse, 

Of  cutting  up,  and  thus  behaving  rioty, 
And  acting  with  such  awful  impropriety? 


2G6  SKETCH-BOOK    OF    ME,    MEISTER    KARL. 

Indulging  so  in  thoughts  of  death  and  slaughter, 
Of  course,  my  friend,  you  know  you  hadn't  orter. 
And  as  for  hidin'  me, 
It  needn't  be  tried  on  me, 
You  know  you  wouldn't, 
Besides  you  couldn't. 

I  am  a  MAN — my  name  is  MANN — and  you, 
Of  course,  would  stand  no  chance  against  us  two." 

"Yes,"  quoth  his  foe,  "  but  I'm  the  Lord's  anointed, 
And  from  my  cradle  upward  was  appointed 
To  roam  the  roads  until  it  could  be  said 
That  I  had  thrash'd  two  men  of  Marblehead  j 

This  is  my  mission, 

Reveal' d  in  a  vision  : 
You  are  a  double  man,  a  double  you  ; 
But  I'm  beside  myself — we're  two  to  two." 

Exclaiming  this,  at  Mr.  Mann  he  darted, 

And  maul'd  him  half  to  death  before  they  parted. 


CHAPTER  THE  THIRTY-FIRST. 

IN    WHICH   THE    COURIER   TRAVELLETII    INTO   GHOST-LAND. 

FAIRY    MYTHOLOGY. 

All  over  doth  this  outer  earth 

An  inner  earth  enfold ; 
And  sounds  may  roach  us  of  its  mirth 

Over  its  pales  of  gold. 
There  spirits  dwell — unweddcd  all 

From  the  shapes  and  shades  they  wore; 
Though  oft  their  printless  footsteps  fall 

By  the  hearths  they  loved  before. 
We  mark  them  not,  nor  hear  the  sound 
They  make  in  circling  all  around; 
Their  bidding  sweet  and  voiceless  prayer 
Float  without  echo  on  the  air; 
Yet  often  in  unworldly  places, 
Soft  Sorrow's  twilight  vales, 
We  meet  them  with  uncover'd  faces, 

Outside  their  golden  pales  ; 
Yet  dim,  as  they  must  ever  be, 
Like  ships  far  off  and  out  at  sea, 
With  the  sun  upon  their  sails. 

ONE  evening,  in  Heidelberg,  the  Courier  had  been  discussing 
with  his  friends  the  numerous  spirit-legends  of  that  haunted 


GHOST-LAND.  267 

town.  The  well  of  the  sorceress,  the  witch-gate,  and  the  spectre- 
horse  of  the  Neunheim  ferry,  had  all  been  marvelled  at,  when 
Meister  Karl  suddenly  bethought  him  of  a  spiritual  communica 
tion  written  lang  syne,  and  which  he  hastened  to  find.  Ices 
were  brought,  the  Wolf  ordered  a  fresh  bottle  of  Burgundy,  and 
KARL,  smiling  at  the  associations  awakened  by  the  faded  ink  of 
his  manuscript,  began  in  a  solemn  voice — 

"  My  friends,  are  ye  tired  of  earth  ?  Then  let  me  lead  you 
away  among  the  dim  shapes  and  silent  mysteries  of  Wonder- 
Land  :" 

I  speak  of  the  early  time,  when  the  world  was  utterly  lonely 
and  silent.  As  yet,  the  forests  of  Northland  were  unbroken, 
save  by  the  power  of  the  tempest;  for  the  axe  of  the  woodman 
had  not  then  sounded,  nor  the  oar  of  the  Vikingir  been  heard  on 
the  Northern  Sea. 

The  giant  NOR  lay  in  a  vast  cavern  by  the  shore  of  the  Baltic. 
And  he  felt  the  breath  of  the  evening  wind  as  it  moved  sadly 
and  wearily  among  the  mighty  oaks ;  for  it  had  come  from  the 
forest,  and  bore  upon  its  wings  the  mournful  voices  of  the  dark- 
green  trees.  And  the  voices  spoke  to  the  giant  father,  and  said, 
"Why  are  we  thus  neglected?  Among  our  branches  no  spirits 
dwell ;  our  beauty  is  unsung ;  unheeded  and  unloved,  we  bloom 
and  wither;  and  our  lives  are  very  short,  for  no  Hamadryads 
protect  us  who  dwell  here  in  the  far  Northland." 

And  the  voices  died  away ;  but  the  giant  Nor  was  troubled  in 
spirit  at  the  wail  of  his  loved  ones. 

From  the  depths  of  the  far  distant  blue,  even  from  the  outer 
courts  of  Asgard,  the  dwelling  of  the  deities,  came  the  voice  of 
the  gentle  Braga,  the  spirit  of  poesy,  whose  soft,  flowing  words 
are  as  mead  to  Odin,  the  father  of  the  gods.  And  he  said  to 
Nor,  "Thou  art  alone,  but  we  will  give  thee  a  son  who  shall  be 
as  a  father  to  the  spirits  which  were  born  from  the  dark-haired 
Asa.  From  the  hills  and  forests,  from  the  valleys  and  plains  of 
the  south,  shall  they  come ;  and  when  they  dwell  in  these  lands 
of  thine,  they  will  be  yet  more  beautiful  than  before ;  and  the 
men  who  come  after  will  call  this  race  the  ELFIN,  and  their 
father  the  TEUTON." 

And  it  happened  even  as  the  gentle  Braga  had  said.  North 
land  was  no  longer  desolate,  but  filled  with  the  spirits  of 
Faerie.  Hill  and  dale,  mountain  and  river,  tree  and  fountain, 

23* 


268 


SKETCH-BOOK    OF    ME,    MEISTER    KARL. 


had  each  its  guardian  spirit.  Deep  in  the  earth  dwelt  the 
Gnome  and  Kobold;  far,  far  from  the  light  of  day  they  built 
themselves  gold  and  silver  halls,  lit  up  with  ever-gleaming 
carbuncles. 

In  the  hard  rock  dwelt  the  Duergar  and  Dienez,  who  were 
thought  in  those  days  to  be  harder  and  sterner  than  the  rocks 
themselves;  while  the  rivers,  lakes,  and  fountains  were  the 
homes  of  Undines,  Naiads,  Nymphs,  Melusinse,  and  Wasserelfen. 
But  even  in  this  soft  and  gentle  element  were  found  those  fierce 
and  gloomy  sprites,  the  Kelpies,  who  delighted  in  troubling  man 
kind.  So  said  the  men  of  .an  early  time.  Heaven  forbid  that  I 
should  speak  aught  against  any  of  the  dwellers  in  FAERIE  !  No 
word  against  the  Gnomes  of  the  Mountains !  I  sat  among  the 
rocks  in  moonlight  in  Nibelungen  Land,  and  heard  their  voices 
humming  in  the  caverns.  And  in  mystery,  in  beauty,  and  dim 
ness  they  led  me  down  : 


For  seven  days 

Heard  I  in  the  hill 

The  iron  hammers ; 

For  seven  days 

I  listened  there 

To  the  songs  of  the  Gnomes. 

For  seven  days 

Heard  I  gold  and  steel, 

And  the  fire  which  sounded 

Like  the  cries  of  many  men. 

Deep  in  the  earth 

Lies  the  land  of  the  Gnomes; 

In  that  country 

Are  neither  trees  nor  meadows; 

Moonlight  and  starlight 

Shine  not  upon  them. 

Birds  do  not  sing  there; 

Barley  does  not  grow  there ; 

Bees  and  flies 

Saw  I  never  there. 

They  see  no  clouds, 

Yet  sometimes  rain 

Falleth  upon  them, 

Down  through  the  rocks. 

But  it  is  very  light 

In  the  Land  of  the  Gnomes, 

For  they  have  bright  stones, 


Which  flash  in  the  dark 

Like  the  eyes 

Of  an  angry  wolf: 

So  the  house  is  lighted. 

Their  land  is  very  broad, 

For  under  all  the  earth, 

And  the  great  sea  also, 

Dwell  the  Gnomes. 

When  it  is  cold  on  earth, 

It  is  warm  in  that  country. 

When  the  summer  is  hot 

The  Gnomes  bear  heavy  garments. 

In  that  land 

Is  much  iron  and  gold  : 

Therewith  they  make 

Fine  swords  and  helmets. 

There  in  that  land 

Saw  I  many  men  and  women, 

Many  fair  maidens, 

Brave  knights  and  good  harpers, 

Who  had  left  the  green  world, 

And  dwelt  merrily 

In  the  houses  of  the  Gnomes. 

There  we  feasted 

With  mead,  wine,  and  beer. 

Naught  had  we  to  pay, 

For  the  Gnomes  love  men. 


GHOST-LAND.  269 

The  Undines,  too,  like  all  elementary  spirits,  are  of  a  kind  and 
gentle  nature,  living,  loving,  and  delighting  in  all  good.  Such 
was  that  mild  maiden  so  sweetly  drawn  by  the  gifted  fairy-an 
nalist,  La  Motte  Fouque;  such,  though  man  had  belied  them, 
the  Wild  Ladies  who  sang  to  Von  Troneg  Hagen  ;  such  the  fair 
Nymph  of  Lurlei;  such  the  gentle  siren  of  Naples;  and  such 
the  water-damoscll  of  the  great  magician  Gothe  : 

ttnb  tote  er  jlfct  unb  tote  er  laufdjt, 
£f)etlt  ftcfy  ber  $lut()  empor; 
5lu3  bent  kttegtcn  SBaffcr  raufcfyt 
(Sin  feitdjteS  2Betf>  $er»or. 

In  the  element  of  fire  dwelt  the  pure  Salamanders  and  Saldini, 
who  are,  say  the  Ilosicrucians,  more  beautiful  and  reserved  than 
their  relations  of  Air,  Earth,  and  Water ;  and  nearly  allied  to 
them  the  familiar  spirits  termed  Penates,  born,  according  to 
Paracelsus,  of  Fire  and  Air. 

How  shall  I  describe  ye,  0  beautiful  Sylphs  !  Bright  dwellers 
in  the  aerial  element,  how  can  I  tell  the  unutterable  longing,  the 
deep  yearning  with  which  my  heart  inclines  to  your  celestial 
company  !  Whether  ye  revel  in  the  rose-perfumed  cloud  which, 
at  glowing  dawn,  hangs  over  the  golden  gardens  of  Istamboul,  or 
with  sister  Peris  wing  your  way  far,  far  above  the  sun-painted 
rainbow  and  crimson-gleaming  flame  of  the  western  sky,  still  my 
heart  follows  and  is  ever  with  you.  Yea,  for  AGLA,  the  fairest, 
is  in  your  band  :  Agla,  whom  I  have  twice  seen  in  dreams. 

It  may  be  that  some  will  look  upon  the  old  Northland  legend 
of  the  birth  of  the  Elfin,  and  of  the  four  elementary  tribes,  as 
trifling  and  obscure.  And  truly  the  followers  of  the  gifted  Plato, 
who  are  said  to  have  learned  many  notable  things  relative  to  the 
dwellers  in  the  Unseen,  have  given  us  another  and  more  satisfac 
tory  account,  which  I — albeit  my  skill  therein  be  but  small — 
will  set  forth  to  the  lovers  of  fairy  lore. 

This  outer  world,  which  is  but  the  object  of  the  invisible,  is 
formed  from  matter  which,  in  the  beginning,  was  harmonized 
into  shape  by  the  occult  virtue  of  spiritual  numbers.  In  the  be 
ginning  the  Triad  was  born  from  the  Monad,  as  it  is  declared  by 
Proclus  in  his  scholia:  "Toto  enim  in  Mundo  lucet  Trinitas, 
cujus  Umtas  initium  est."  Hence  it  follows,  that  in  the  gene 
ration  of  all  phenomena,  a  perfect  and  peculiar  number  was 
allotted  to  every  element  and  every  principle.  Fire,  Air,  and 


270  SKETCH-BOOK   OF   ME,    MEISTER   KARL. 

Water  are  derived  from  the  scalene  triangle.  A  cube  is  the 
figure  peculiar  to  earth,  and  the  icosahedron  to  water.  At  every 
intermixture  of  these  elements,  and  consequently  at  every  new 
creation  therefrom,  a  new  number  is  generated,  representative  of  a 
new  IDEA,  developed  in  the  Monad. 

The  objective  form  of  the  numeral  is  changeable,  and  subject  to 
annihilation.  But  the  corresponding  IDEA,  as  partaking  of  the 
nature  of  the  primary  Monad  or  Demiurgos,  is,  in  its  essence, 
intelligent  and  also  eternal.  But  when  its  duties  are  performed, 
it  retains  no  longer  a  distinct  personality,  but  is  reabsorbed  into 
the  original  element,  and  thus,  though  eternal,  is  to  all  intents 
annihilated. 

Thus,  the  four  glorious  companies  of  elementary  spirits  are  for 
ever  shut  out  from  a  share  in  those  eternal  joys  allowed  to  man. 
And  so  it  often  happens  that  the  remembrance  of  this  inspires 
them  with  wayward  and  wilful  fits  of  that  which,  in  mortals,  were 
despair.  And  a  misapprehension  of  the  cause  of  this  hath  often 
caused  men  to  confound  them  with  the  dwellers  in  the  dark 
abyss. 

Yet  this  is  wrong,  since  they  do  GOD'S  will  cheerfully.  If  this 
remembrance  of  their  final  annihilation  be  awakened,  they  are 
not  unfrequently  hostile  to  man.  Thus  it  hath  ever  been  ac 
counted  dangerous  to  meet  them  on  a  Friday : 

This  is  the  day  when  the  fairy  kind 

Sit  -weeping  alone  for  their  hopeless  lot, 
And  the  wood-maiden  sighs  to  the  moaning  wind, 

And  the  mcrmaiden  weeps  in  her  crystal  grot  ; 
For  this  is  a  day  when  a  deed  was  done 

In  which  they  had  neither  part  nor  share : 
For  the  children  of  clay  was  salvation  wrought, 

But  not  for  the  forms  of  Earth  and  Air. 
And  ever  the  mortal  is  most  forlorn 
Who  meeteth  their  race  on  Friday  morn. 

But  there  is  one  way  remaining  by  which  the  Elfin  tribes  may 
obtain  this  boon.  If  one  of  these  spirits  should  wed  a  human 
being,  then,  by  virtue  of  that  passage  in  Holy  Writ  which  de 
clares  a  married  pair  to  be  one,  they  may,  by  becoming  mortal, 
attain  to  immortality.  Thus  declares  the  spirit-read  Count 
Gabalis. 

Beautiful  elves,  who  dwell  in  the  golden  glories  of  the  far  land 
of  light,  must  ye  then  stoop  to  the  level  of  degraded  mortality  to 


GHOST-LAND.  271 

attain,  with  the  children  of  earth,  those  joys  which  spread  broad 
and  wide  beyond  the  grave  ?  And  is  it  true  (as  the  old  Arabian 
declared)  that  ye  do  dwell  in  this  earth  disguised  as  mortals  ? 
For  he  saith  that  here  and  there  in  this  world,  but  few  and  far 
between,  dwell  the  houris  of  Elf-land. 

0  thou  who  readest  these  dream-reveries!  if  ever  among 
those  gentle  demoiselles,  whose  friendship  or  love  has  given 
many  a  golden  hour  to  the  weariness  of  life,  thou  hast  seen  ONE 
whose  every  look,  glance,  and  smile  seemed  to  tell  of  a  higher 
and  brighter  land ;  whose  thoughts  and  wishes,  ever  aspiring  to 
the  spiritual  and  unseen,  seemed  to  fix  more  and  more  indelibly 
upon  her  love  the  character  of 'the  unattainable,  then  know  that 
thou  hast  seen  a  true  spirit-maiden,  even  a  veritable  Elf ! 

0  friend !  knowest  thou  not  that  there  are  myriads  around 
thee  in  this  world,  in  whose  mysterious  eyes  and  outward-glancing 
souls  may  be  traced  the  gleam  of  the  infinite  and  the  impression 
of  a  previous  life  ?  Some  who  live  and  act  in  the  feeling  of  the 
good,  beautiful,  and  true,  though  darkened  by  the  shadows  of 
life  and  sense  ?  Of  such  are  the  Sylph  and  Naiad,  or  Sala*nian- 
der;  rising  from  the  downward-born  elements  of  GOD  !  Others, 
who  live  and  move  only  in  the  strange,  the  grotesque,  and  ever- 
changing,  who  grasp  at  no  idea  as  others  grasp  it,  the  serious 
reality  of  whose  souls  rests  on  the  feeling  of  the  incongruous  and 
laughable.  And  these  were  merry  Goblins,  wild  Gnomes,  fan 
tastic  Elves,  roving  Will-o'-the-Wisps,  Red-caps,  and  Koboldi. 
Strangely,  and  wildly,  and  wonderfully,  they  circle  through  the 
world,  with  their  quips  and  cranks,  their  gambols  and  gaudrioles, 
their  fantasie,  bizarrerie,  and  burlesquerie.  0  friends  of  "my 
soul — light  of  my  life  !  doth  the  air  of  life  press  too  coldly  and 
thickly  upon  you  ?  And  of  such  were  Richter,  and  Rabelais, 
and  Hoffman,  and  Pater  Rush,  and  Tyll  Eulenspiegel,  and 
Sterne,  and  Swift,  and  Robin  Goodfellow,  and  Abraham  a  Santa 
Clara,  and  Jerome  Bosch,  and  Hollenbreughel,  and  Callot,  and 
Tabourot,  and  the  Seigneur  des  Accords,  and — of  all  who  arrive 
at  a  comprehension  of  the  mysterious  life-problem  by  reading  it 
up  the  middle,  down  the  sides,  and  finally  reversing  it !  Ye 
quaint,  fantastic  souls !  how  little  does  the  world,  when  it  splits 
its  sides  with  roaring  at  your  oddities,  comprehend  either  your 
nature  or  that  at  which  it  laughs !  But  it  is  only  the  outer  form, 
the  last  tincture  of  your  cabala,  which  provokes  laughter.  Only 


272  SKETCH-BOOK   OF   ME,    MEISTER   KARL. 

the  scum  on  the  surface ;  for  beneath  that  lies  a  deep,  unfathom 
able  gulf  of  high-pressure  mystery,  and  fourth-proof  wonder  and 
adoration. 

There  are  many,  too,  who  have  never  written  or  painted ;  nay, 
who  have  never  attracted  particular  attention  from  their  nearest 
friends  by  act  or  word,  yet  whose  whole  life  is  to  themselves  a 
mystery,  a  whimsy,  an  incomprehensible,  serio-comic  problem. 
I  know  that  strange  gleam  of  the  eye,  that  twitch  of  the  lip. 
Yes,  it  was  brave  in  Elf-land  ! 

Burning  daughter  of  love,  thou  wert  once  a  succubus,  and 
wafted  on  the  wings  of  night ;  and  hot  longing,  didst  steal  from 
sleep,  hearts  and  new  lives.  Man  of  dulness,  known  in  society 
as  a  bore,  thou  wert  an  incubus;  there  were  nine  of  ye  then. 
Miser,  whose  soul  is  with  thy  gold,  thou  wert  once  a  Leprau- 
chaun,  and  didst  heap  even  as  now.  False  and  deceitful  heart, 
dealer  in  scandal  and  bitterness,  thou  wert  among  the  Paraedri, 
the  evil  ones.  Thou,  my  pretty  child,  whose  life  passes  among 
pinks  and  hyacinths,  jessamine  flower-seeds  and  the  hot-house, 
thou»wert  a  Peucedanum,  a  spirit  of  woods  and  gardens. 

But  there  is  one,  the  Gloriana,  the  queen  of  Fantasie  and 
Faerie,  whose  glances  are  not  for  all,  whom  every  one  may  not 
safely  meet.  That  one  is 


THE    FOUNTAIN    FAY. 

Ye  gentles  all,  who  love  your  life, 
Beware,  beware,  the  water  wife  ! 

She  singeth  soft,  she  singeth  low ; 

Her  lute  is  the  mountain  streamlet's  flow : 

Her  harp,  the  pine-wood's  mournful  moan ; 
She  sits  by  the  fountain  and  sings  alone : 

And  her  songs  like  musical  rivers  roll  ; 
Beware,  beware,  lest  they  drown  thy  soul ! 

Ride  where  you  may,  ride  where  you  will, 
The  Fountain  Fay  can  meet  you  still. 


He  rode  alono  in  the  silent  night; 

She  swam  like  a  star  to  his  left  and  right. 


GHOST-LAND.  278 

He  rode  by  the  linden  blooming  fair  ; 

Dauie  Nightingale  sang,  "  0  youth,  beware  !" 

He  came  to  the  fountain  within  the  wood; 
The  Fay  in  her  beauty  before  him  stood. 

In  the  starlight,  silver-sparkling  glance, 
Her  sisters  swain  in  the  Elfin  dance. 

Alight,  thou  minstrel  brave  and  gay  ! 
And  sing  us  thy  sweetest,  choicest  lay. 

He  sang  so  sweet,  he  sang  so  long, 

The  flower-buds  open'd  to  hear  his  song; 

He  sang  so  gently  of  maidens  and  love, 
He  ripen'd  the  fruit  on  the  boughs  above. 

I  ask  no  more  for  lute  and  lay 

Than  a  kiss  from  the  lips  of  the  Fountain  Fay. 

She  kiss'd  him  once — to  the  minstrel's  sight 
The  world  seem'd  melting  in  golden  light. 

Once  more — and  his  soul  to  the  land  of  the  Fay 
In  beauty  and  music  seem'd  floating  away. 

As  she  kiss'd  him  again,  the  spirit  had  fled; 
He  lay  in  the  moon-rays  cold  and  dead. 

From  above  a  musical  whisper  fell : 

Green  Earth,  with  thy  valleys  and  lakes — Farewell ! 


Ye  who  shun  the  regions  of  poesy, 
Of  beauty,  romance,  and  fantasie  ! 

And  who  think  there  can  be  no  world  like  this 
Beware  of  the  Fairy — beware  her  kiss  ! 


274  SKETCH-BOOK    OF    ME,    METSTER    KARL. 


CHAPTER  THE   THIRTY-SECOND. 

IX  WHICH  MEISTER  KARL,  FORGETTING  BOTH  FRIENDS  AND 
FOES,  SITS  HIM  DOWN  AND  ELABORATES  SEVERAL  EXPERI 
ENCES,  BOTH  REAL  AND  FEIGNED,  CONCLUDING  IT  WITH 
THE  LAST  WHIFF  OF  HIS  PIPE,  AND  IN  MUCH  THE  SAME 
MANNER. 

$ast  an*  $ctscnl. 

CENTURIES  have  roll'd  away 
Since  I  saw  ray  natal  day ; 
And  have  now,  in  different  forms, 
Lived  in  sunshine — lived  in  storms. 

CONFESSIO  AMANTIS.     JV.  Y.  Albion. 

IT  has  been  the  object  of  the  author  to  impart  to  the  reader  in 
this  book  his  literary  and  personal  experiences.  And  he  has 
sought  to  be  guided  solely  by  absolute  truth. 

And  wherein  doth  such  truth  consist?  _  There  are  certain 
towns  which  I  have  never  visited,  yet  which  I  know  right  well 
by  reading  and  by  report,  by  romance,  rumour,  and  relation. 
And  there  are  others  which  I  have  visited,  and  of  which  I  know 
nothing — not  even  enough  to  write  a  guide-book  for  them. 

And  there  are  divers  men  and  women  whom  I  have  never 
seen,  yet  whom  I  know  right  well  by  their  labours  and  letters, 
by  their  daguerreotypes  and  similar  "documents."  Meanwhile, 
there  are  others,  whom  I  meet  "day  in  and  day  out,"  who  are  all 
Coptic  to  me. 

And  it  seems  very  strange,  and,  I  may  add,  slightly  unreason 
able,  by  which  I  mean  "deucedly  foolish  and  impertinent,"  for 
the  world  to  insist  upon  it  that  I  "know"  Fitz  Noodle,  Esq., 
or  Blondina  Tulle,  or  any  other  of  the  fluttering  flock  of 
fools,  and  that  I  stand  in  no  relation  whatever,  express  or  im 
plied,  to  those  great,  glorious,  jolly,  genial  souls,  in  thinking  on 
whom  I  have  lived,  whose  nearest,  dearest  thoughts  have  been 
my  thoughts,  whose  tastes  have  been  my  tastes,  and  who  have 


PAST   AND   PRESENT.  275 

merely  been  separated  from  me  by  the  trifling  obstacles  of  space 
and  time. 

Separated ! — are  we  separated  ?  In  the  hot,  noisy,  garish 
day,  in  the  bustle  of  Wall  Street,  in  the  Rue  Richelieu,  in  the 
crowded  Strand,  they  are  not  away  from  me.  I  catch  here  and 
there,  in  the  hurrying  throng,  glimpses  of  the  long-departed.  In 
their  own  or  in  others'  faces,  they  peep  at  me  for  an  instant  and 
vanish  in  the  living  tide  as  a  flickering  moonlight  gleam  is  lost 
in  the  dancing  stream.  Seek  to  find  them,  and  they  are  not 
there — for  it  is  their  pleasure  to  glance  at  you  but  for  an  instant, 
to  know  how  it  goes  with  you  on  earth  or  during  business-hours, 
and  to  glide  away. 

0  reader !  I  have  friends  among  the  departed  whom  I  some 
times  tremble  at  the  thought  of  meeting  again  on  earth — not  in 
the  dark  night  or  alone,  but  in  a  busy  crowd  at  noonday.  They 
are  ever  about  us,  queer  fellows  that  they  are,  and  incessantly 
giving  us  the  dodge.  They  fear  to  be  caught,  and  yet  continu 
ally  risk  it.  Only  last  week  I,  Meister  Karl,  did  very  nearly 
catch  one,  too.  I  saw  him — the  living,  breathing  form  of  a  jolly 
good  fellow,  who  took  it  into  his  head,  some  years  ago,  to  leave 
life,  ladies,  and  Lafitte  claret,  and  retire  to  a  very  elegant  rose 
wood  cofiin.  He  was  passing,  on  his  last  appearance  in  Broad 
way,  beneath  a  building  on  which  men  were  at  work.  Suddenly, 
a  thousand  of  brick  fell  from  above,  one  of  which  penetrated  his 
beaver  and  his  brain,  and  so — he  died.  Died — as  had  been  pro 
phesied  in  the  early  almanac  of  Creation — "with  a  brick  in  his 
hat." 

And  he  last  week  glanced  in  the  likeness  of  a  living  man  at 
me  as  I  was  rushing  past  the  Astor  House.  "And  now,"  thought 
I,  "for  once,  I  will  catch  a  ghost."  He  ran  briskly  through  the 
crowd,  but  I  kept  my  eye  on  him  until  he  had  turned  his  head, 
when  I  caught  him  by  the  shoulders  and  held  him  fast.  Yet  lo ! 
as  he  looked  around,  it  was  lie  no  longer,  but  a  very  irascible 
Frenchman,  "travelling  on  a  shape"  which  I  had  greatly  dis 
turbed.  So  I  bowed  and  let  him  go. 

And  there  was  Pat — a  bright,  "smart,"  lively  Irish  waiter, 
impudent  as  the  devil,  but  somewhat  better  looking,  who 
"  waited"  on  me  at  the  Club,  and  died  ere  I  departed.  And 
not  only  died,  but  it  was  even  debated  one  afternoon  in  the 
smoking-room  whether  he  were  not  damned  also — Charley  Flynn 

21 


276  SKETCH-BOOK    OF    ME,    MEISTER   KARL. 

betting  a  dozen  of  champagne  on  the  affirmative  with  Old  Chisel, 
the  Rev.  Dr.  Smiler  to  hold  stakes  and  decide.  And  yet,  very 
recently,  while  dining  in  a  restaurant,  who  should  come  up,  of  all 
birds  in  the  air,  but  PAT. 

"Pat,  you  rascal!"  said  I,  reprovingly,  "ain't  you  ashamed 
to  be  out  of  your  grave  in  this  indecent  manner  at  five  o'clock  in 
the  afternoon  ?" 

"  Sure,  an'  I  hav'nt  been  did  at  all !"  he  replied ;  "  an'  if  I 
was,  I'd  rise  to  wait  on  yer  honour  I" 

I  knew  he  was  lying,  but  I  gave  him  two  shillings.  Of 
course,  he  never  appeared  again,  and  nobody  about  the  house 
knew  any  thing  of  such  a  waiter.  Moreover,  I  heard  lately 
from  the  best  authority  that  Pat  did  really  die,  and  was  buried 
long  ago.  None  but  an  Irish  ghost  would  have  ever  had  such 
impudence. 

And  there  are  others  who  live  again  in  other  shapes,  yet 
whose  souls  blush  forth  at  times  in  the  olden  form,  even  as  the 
Aurora  is  the  same  though  seen  in  different  lands.  Such  was 
that  beautiful,  gentle,  merry  little  Lady  Blanche,  who,  with  her 
mother,  so  kindly  nursed  Wolf  Short  when  he  was  sick  in  Milan. 
Wolf  used  to  call  her  "  Launch,"  from  a  droll,  abrupt  fashion 
she  had  of  dashing  out  with  any  thought  which  chanced  into 
her  little  noddle.  Poor  Blanche ! — she  died  herself  at  Genoa, 
and  the  Wolf  had  a  very  beautiful  monument  placed  over  her 
grave. 

Now,  in  England  we  subsequently  became  acquaiated  with  a 
lady  who  often  and  strangely  reminded  me  of  Blanche.  One 
day,  while  speaking  of  ships,  she  said — 

"Did  you  ever  see  a  launch?" 

I  stared  at  her,  bewildered  with  strange  recollections  and  by 
the  odd,  half-significant  tone  of  her  voice.  She  burst  into  a  loud 
peal  of  laughter. 

Now,  /  should  like  to  know  what  she  was  laughing  at. 

On  another  occasion  she  remarked  to  Wolf — 

"I  suppose  that  in  Paris  you  were  a  constant  visitor  at  Pere 
la  Chaise?" 

"And  why?" 

"  Oh  ! — nothing — only — that  you  have  such  an  exquisite  taste 
in  tombstones." 

"Yes,"  thought  I,  with  an  uneasy  thrill,  "he  has  an  exquisite 


PAST    AND    PRESENT.  277 

taste  in  tombstones,  as  some  folks  have  a  very  good  right  to 
know."  And  with  this  I  looked  at  Wolf,  indulging  a  percussion- 
cap  glance  and  a  trip-hammer  nod,  nor  will  I  swear  that  the 
ghost  of  a  wink  did  not  travel  athwart  my  left  eye.  She  came 
near  going  to  the  grave  a  second  time  with  laughter — not  that  it 
would  have  made  much  difference  to  her,  either. 

But  there  are  very  few  of  the  departed  who  are  bold  enough 
to  "face  the  music"  of  their  former  life  in  this  vis-d-vis  manner. 
Some  early  make  themselves  felt  in  eccentric  coincidences,  in 
suddenly-awakened  memories,  in  books  : 

Oftentimes  a  look  or  smile, 
Forgotten  in  a  kiss's  while, 
Years  after  from  the  dark  will  start, 
And  flash  across  the  trembling  heart. 

Reader,  what  think  you  of  the  following  story,  noted  down  from 
the  experiences  of  a  congenial  Danish  friend  ? 

"  Years  ago  there  was  a  dry  old  fellow  whom  I  used  to  meet 
day  after  day  in  a  certain  library.  Now,  we  spoke  but  little 
together,  and  yet  were  intimate  friends  withal ;  for  we  were  both 
in  the  same  line  of  reading.  And  by  dry,  I  mean  droll  j  for  he 
was  by  no  means  dull,  and  could  make  punch  like  one  of  the 
Faithful. 

"  The  last  time  I  met  him,  he  handed  me  (I  know  not  why)  a 
slip  of  paper  on  which  was  written  that  motto  of  Koerner's — 
Vergiss  die  treuen  Todten  niclit.  ( Forget  n*ot  the  faithful 
dead.'  And  within  a  few  days  he  was  among  the  departed, 
having,  as  I  was  credibly  informed,  died  while  in  the  act  of 
reading. 

"Now,  it  happened  not  long  after  that,  in  another  library  and 
in  another  land,  I  wished  very  much  to  consult  a  work  which  I 
could  not  find  in  the  catalogue.  Vexed  at  not  getting  it,  I 
earnestly  wished  my  learned  old  friend  alive,  since  he  could 
surely  tell  me  where  it  could  be  found.  And  this  done,  I  sent 
the  librarian  for  something  else,  when  he  to  my  astonishment 
returned  with  the  first  book  which  I  had  desired,  though  he 
knew  not  himself  that  he  had  done  so.  And  when  I  opened 
the  work,  the  first  thing  which  I  beheld  on  the  title-page, 
written  in  a  trembling  hand,  was  Koerner's  motto — { Forget  not 
the  faithful  dead  !' ;;  " 


278  SKETCH-BOOK    OF    ME,    METSTER    KARL. 

How  often,  in  passing  through  picture-galleries,  do  the  eyes 
of  the  departed  gaze  solemnly,  yet  gently,  on  me  from  their 
frames,  as  if  looking  down  from  golden  windows  in  the  myste 
rious  castle  of  D'outre  Mort !  They  speak  not — their  eyes  move 
not,  and  yet  their  gleam  is  not  stolid,  but  rather  filled  with  the 
awful  intelligence,  the  eternal  intensity  of  soul  which  inspires 
the  Egyptian  sphynx. 

Not  but  that  they  sometimes  depart  from  this  rule,  and 
that  with  a  vengeance.  Did  I  not  myself,  one  evening,  as  the 
shades  of  twilight  fell  around  me  in  the  Gallery  of  Munich,  see 
the  portrait  of  Pietro  Aretino  (il  Divine^  indulge  in  a  diabolical, 
prolonged,  wicked  wink  at  me  as  a  loving  young  couple  walked 
past  us,  squeezed  arm  in  arm,  and  looking  into  each  other's  eyes 
as  only  German  lovers  can  look  ? 

But  of  all  interviews  with  the  departed,  commend  me  to  those 
furnished  by  memory.  Those  in  the  gift  of  imagination  (and 
with  which,  reader,  you  have  been  very  bountifully  "bedoozled") 
are,  I  admit,  admirable;  but  they  lack  that  truthfulness  so 
essential  to  a  perfect  aesthetic  conception.  With  many,  it  is 
true,  the  visitations  of  memory  are  apt  to  induce  melancholy, 
and  it  may  be,  at  times,  a  fine  madness,  as  was  the  case  with 
that  unfortunate  knight,  Henry  von  Hoheneck — so  beautifully 
sung  ages  ago  by  the  Minnesinger  Hartmann  von  der  Aue,  and 
in  modern  times  by  Henri  de  Longfellow : 

They  come,  the  shapes  of  joy  and  wo, 
The  airy  crowds  of  long  ago, 
The  dreams  and  fancies  known  of  yoro, 
•That  have  been,  and  shall  be  no  more. 
They  change  the  cloisters  of  the  night 
Into  a  garden  of  delight. 
They  make  the  dark  and  dreary  hours 
Open  and  blossom  into  flowers. 
I  would  not  sleep  !    I  love  to  be 
Again  in  their  fair  company. 
But  ere  my  lips  can  bid  them  stay, 
They  pass  and  vanish  quite  away ! 

And  there  are  those  beautiful  phantoms,  born  of  Sir  Imagina 
tion  and  Dame  Memory,  which  are  the  most  exquisite  of  all, 
and,  it  may  be,  the  most  reliable,  as  indicating  in  their  shadowy 
refinement  some  prophetic  sense  of  our  own  life  to  come.  With 
such  as  these  is  Meister  Karl  and  friends  of  his  ilk  peculiarly 


PAST   AND    PRESENT.  279 

beset,  having  been  on  more  than  one  occasion  so  be-haunted  and 
be-devilled  by  them  with  waking  fancies,  that  the  "  antique 
buster"  was  fain  to  take  refuge  in  song.  And,  as  ensample 
thereof,  you  have  here  a  ballad,  and  in  mine  own  original  Dutch, 
at  that;  to  which  there  is,  however,  mercifully  appended  a  trans 
lation  for  the  benefit  of  those  whom  a  due  regard  for  their 
teeth  has  deterred  from  learning  the  Teutonic  tongue  :  — 

£>  t  e  3ft>ei   ^reunbe, 

3$  fyabe  nur  jttet  ^reunbe  cutf  biefer  Srbe  btcr, 
ttnb  immcr  in  ber  2ftttternad)t  ba  fommen  fie  jur  ntir, 

£)cr  crfie  Itegt  bcgraben  im  fcrncn  Span'fcben  Sanb, 
2)er  jftette  tvar  ertnmfcn  bet  9Hifante'$  <£tranb. 


3&r  Common  ift  ntir  2Bonne—  3f)r  ©cfjctben  bttt're  §)eht, 
SBenn  betbc  ttuebcr  weidjen  im  golb'nen  SWorjjenfdjctn. 

£)er  Grfte  bet  $obotben  macfyt  ftdjeren  ©eitmtn, 
2)er  Bweite  ift  »crmaf;let  mtt  enter  SDtcergdttift. 

SB«3  fummert  ntic^  bag  ©terben  n)enn  ic^  nur  ftreunbe  W 
3m  SBaf^er  —  in  ber  (£rbe  —  im  feitd)t  unb  trocfenen  ©rab? 


Unb  fterb'  t^  roie  ein  -^etlt^er  ber  gel)t  tn'^  ^i 

Unb  fd)tx>ing  tc^  an  bent  ©algcn  —  mir  ift  e3  alle^  gleiclj. 

THE  THREE  FRIENDS. 

Translated  from  the  German  of  Meister  Karl  by  Meister  Karl,  or,  as  MattJiews 

says,  "  From  Himself  by  Himself." 
ffyut*  t">t<_  ^  "*•- 

I  have  two  friend^,  fc«p  glorious  friendr^-two  braver  could  not  be, 
And  every  night  when  mtttmgitt  teHs  t««y  meet*to  laugh  with  me. 

The  first  was  shot  by  Carlist  thieves  two  years  ago  in  Spain, 
The  second  drowned  near  Alicante,  —  while  I  alive  remain. 

I  love  to  see  their  dim  white  forms  come  floating  through  the  night, 
And  grieve  to  see  them  fade  away  in  early  morning  light. 

The  first  with  gnomes  in  the  TJnderland  is  leading  a  lordly  life, 
And  the  second  has  married  a  mermaideu  —  a  beautiful  water-wife. 

And  since  I  have  friends  in  the  earth  and  sea  —  with  a  few,  I  trust,  on  high  — 
'Tis  a  matter  of  small  account  to  me,  the  way  that  I  must  die. 

For  whether  I  sink  in  the  foaming  flood,  or  swing  in  the  triple  tree, 
Or  die  in  my  grave  as  a  Christian  should,  is  much  the  same  to  me. 

Next  to  seeing  ghosts  is  the  glorious  faculty  of  having  lived 
in  all  time  or  u  anywhere."  Truly,  reader,  he  who  can  com 
mune  at  will  with  the  spirits  of  ladies  and  gentlemen  of  olden 

24* 


280  SKETCH-BOOK    OF    ME,    MEISTER   KARL. 

time,  must  commune  also  with  the  ghosts  of  their  garments, 
weapons,  and  other  arrangements  which  go  to  make  up  their 
individuality,  not  to  mention  houses,  lands,  and  the  regular  suc 
cession  of  events.  Only  make  the  first  step,  and  there  you  are, 
all  right ! 

And  it  was  thus  that  it  came  to  pass  that  Meister  Karl,  the 
courier,  saw  in  days  of  old  much  which  in  modern  times  was  vouch 
safed  only  to  the  Count  St.  Germain  and  Co.  Bear  with  him  awhile, 
while  he  communicates  one  or  two  of  these  antique  experiences, — 
the  first  being  an  old  Legend  of  Meister  Karl's  youth,  forming 
a  remarkable  narration  in  the  modern  French  feuilleton  style  of 
originality. 

There  stood  in  the  olden  time  a  lordly  castle,  whose  golden 
summit  gleamed  far  o'er  land  and  sea.  A  lovely  garden  breath 
ing  perfumes  lay  around  it  like  a  fair  wreath,  and  therein  sprang 
fresh  fountains  in  the  rainbow  light. 

It  was  on  a  lovely  May  morning  in  the  latter  part  of  the 
twelfth  century,  that  a  solitary  horseman,  who  was  no  other  than 
the  Courier  himself,  might  have  been  seen  gallantly  mounted  on 
a  fiery  Andalusian  barb,  wending  his  way  from  the  northern 
gate  of  the  above-mentioned  edifice.  He  bore  a  sword  by  his 
side,  a  lute  at  his  back,  vengeance  in  his  heart,  and  sacrt  Dieu! 
on  his  lips  !  In  that  castle  dwelt  a  proud  king,  rich  in  lands  and 
conquests,  who  sat  upon  his  throne,  dark  and  ghastly  pale.  For 
his  thoughts  were  Terror — his  glances,  Rage — his  words,  Lashes 
— his  writing,  Blood. 

This  amiable  individual  had  just  turned  the  Courier-minstrel 
out  of  doors  for  presuming  to  euchant  the  queen,  nobility,  and 
gentry  of  his  establishment  with  a  few  of  his  choicest  lays  and 
ditties.  A  very  ungentlemanly  proceeding,  to  say  the  least  of  it, 
on  the  part  of  the  aforesaid  monarch,  and  indicative  of  great 
want  of  taste,  if  we  are  to  believe  the  testimony  of  an  old  black- 
letter  chronicle,  which  distinctly  asserts  that  his  performances 
were  "  tres  doulx  et  fort  plaisant  a  oir,"  or,  in  plain  English,  "  real 
stunnin'."  Oh,  wonderfully  had  the  minstrel  swept  the  strings; 
ever  richer,  sweeter,  and  more  musically  rose  their  clang.  The 
voice  of  the  assistant  tenor  streamed  forth  with  heavenly  clear 
ness;  the  baritone  of  the  Courier  came  in  like  a  mysterious  chorus 
of  spirits.  The  courtiers  in  listening  forgot  their  mocking  jests, 
stern  warriors  bent  in  reverence,  and  the  fair  queen,  melting 


PAST    AND    PRESENT.  281 

in  melancholy  pleasure,  threw  the  Courier  a  rose  from  her 
bosom. 

Which  was  the  signal  for  a  grand  tableau !  For  up  jumped 
the  monarch,  fired  with  rage  and  jealousy,  and  whipping  out  a 
five-pound  Bowie,  plunged  it  into — not  the  Courier — for  it  was 
not  so  written  in  the  book — but  into  the  breast  of  his  unfortu 
nate  assistant.  Out  poured,  instead  of  golden  songs,  the  red 
blood. 

The  Courier  departed.  A  palfrey  with  gold  and  minever  trap 
pings  bore  the  corpse.  But  he  had  not  ridden  far  ere  he 
turned,  and  smashing  his  lute  on  a  marble  column,  cried,  in  a 
loud  voice,  which  echoed  terribly  through  castle  and  garden — 

"  Wo  to  ye,  proud  halls !  The  sweet  song,  of  the.  minstrel, 
the  music  of  the  lute,  shall  never  peal  in  ye  again.  Sighs  and 
groans,  and  the  timid  step  of  the  slave,  shall  echo  in  ye,  until  the 
avenger  overwhelm  ye  in  ruin  and  desolation ! 

"Wo  unto  you,  beautiful  gardens  in  the  fair  May  light! 
Behold  the  rigid  features  of  this  murdered  youth!  Wither 
away,  let  your  fountains  dry  up,  and  be  forever  waste  and 
deserted ! 

"Wo  unto  thee,  reprobate  rapscallion  of  a  murderer,  thou 
curse  of  merrie  minstrelsie !  In  vain  shall  be  thy  strivings  for 
the  garland  of  a  bloody  reputation.  Thy  name  shall  be  forgotten 
and  sunken  in  eternal  night — yea,  melt  away  into  empty  air  like 
a  death  rattle  I" 

These  were  the  expressions  used  by  the  Courier;  and  it  would 
seem  that  Heaven  lent  a  willing  ear,  for  when  he  travelled,  three 
winters  ago,  from  Marseilles  to  Montpellier,  he  stopped  for  a  day 
on  his  route  near  the  place  where  the  unfortunate  affair  happened, 
and  to  see  how  the  curse  had  worked. 

The  walls  had  fallen,  the  halls  were  destroyed.  Only  one  tall 
column  remained  as  evidence  of  vanished  splendour  j  and  as  a  few 
enterprising  men  in  that  vicinity  propose  running  a  railroad  over 
this  very  spot,  it  is  highly  probable  that  even  this  last  vestige 
will  soon  have  departed. 

Around,  instead  of  garden,  lies  dreary  heather-land, 

No  tree  spreads  forth  its  shadow,  no  spring  bursts  through  the  sand. 

The  grounds  have  gone  to  thunder,  the  monarch  gone  to •  worse ! 

Departed  and  forgotten — this  was  the  Courier's  Curse ! 

Then  the  Courier  wandered  onward  over  valley  and  mountain, 


282  SKETCH-BOOK    OF     ME,    MEISTER    KARL. 

plain  and  river,  sometimes  through  the  merry  greenwood  by 
dingle  and  dale,  or  by  quaint  old  cities.  Many  and  wonderful 
were 'his  adventures.  He  slew  giants,  rescued  forlorn  damsels, 
killed  a  dragon,  and  had  several  fights  with  the  police.  Some 
times  he  was  a  minstrel,  and  his  songs  were  welcome  in  castle, 
convent,  and  cot.  He  sung  on  the  Wartburg  with  Klingsohr  and 
Heinrich  von  Ofterdingen,  and  in  the  chateau  of  Tarascon  with 
King  Rene  and  his  Troubadours.  He  was  hand  in  glove  with 
that  mad  fellow  Vidal,  knew  Raymond  de  Maraviglia  and 
Bertrand  de  Born,  and  has  seen  King  Richard.  Ah,  my  friends ! 
that  Minnesinger  Troubadour  era  was  a  brave  time,  and  bravely 
did  Meister  Karl  enjoy  it.  Well  speaks  Carlyle  of  that  tuneful 
chivalry,  that  high,  cheerful  devotion  to  the  godlike  in  heaven 
and  to  women,  its  emblems,  on  earth.  "  For  those  crusades  and 
vernal  love-songs  were  the  heroic  doings  of  the  world's  youth,  to 
which  also  a  corresponding  manhood  succeeded." 

Mit  Degen  und  mit  Speere  With  long  swords  and  with  lances 

Waren  sie  stcts  bereit.  They  led  a  lordly  life ; 

Den  Fraucn  gaben  sie  Ehre,  They  sang  of  beauty's  glances, 

Und  sangen  Widerstreit.  In  many  a  minstrel  strife. 

Sie  sangen  von  Gottesminne,  They  sang  of  armour  ringing, 

Von  kiihncr  Heldenmuth,  Of  heavenly  grace  above, 

Von  lindem  Liebesinne,  Of  May-flowers  fresh  up-springing, 

Von  slisser  Maienbluth.-*  And  gentle  ladie's  love. 

Then  the  Courier  became  a  knight,  a  restless  military  adven 
turer.  He  was  a  lanzknecht  in  Germany,  a  condottiero  in  Italy, 
a  franc  compagnon  in  France,  and  a  reistre  during  the  days  of 
the  League.  And  this  roving,  independent  life  has  ever  had  such 
charms  for  him,  that  even  at  the  present  day  he  prefers  careering 
freely  and  recklessly — a  black  rider  through  the  domain  of  lite 
rature — to  quietly  tilling  its  grounds  or  settling  down  peacefully 
among  its  bourgeoisie.  Nay,  he  would  even  prefer,  as  in  the  pre 
sent  chapter,  sweeping  in  as  a  sort  of  literary  freebooter  and 
dashing  down  a  page  or  two  of  ill-gotten  German  plunder  before 
his  readers,  to  plodding  on  with  a  load  of  duly-inspected,  marked, 
andr approved  translation  or  original  matter!  Bear  with  him, 
gentle  readers,  and  condemn  him  not  for  the  faults  of  his  youth ! 
Remember  that  he  was  the  friend  of  DANTE,  and  twice  lent  him 
money  which  the  great  poet  accepted  with  thanks,  saying,  "You 


*  UlJLAND,  das  JlfaJ/rcJini. 


PAST   AND   PRESENT.  283 

know,  my  boy,  that  I  shan't  repay  you;  for  I  admit  without  blush 
ing,  &c.  &c.;  that  any  tin  which  once  goes  into  my  pocket,  never 
conies  out  again."  A  remark  which  he  subsequently  embodied 
in  the  following  touching  words  in  the  xxvii.  c.  of  his  Inferno: 

Ma  percio  che  giamai  di  qucsto  fondo 

Non  ritorno  alcun,  si  odo  il  vero, 
Sonza  tema  d'infainia  ti  rispondo. 

"  For  since,  if  I  hear  truly,  nothing  ever  returned  from  this 
abyss,  I,  fearless  of  disgrace,  thus  answer  thee." 

Goethe  wrote  the  same  idea  (or  stole  it)  in  other  words : 

SfJix  fomm  |ercw3  ber  fto$Hnpe  nix  serftaty. 

Nothing  corne  out  and  nothing  understand. 

Ergo  libamus!  therefore  let  us  be  cheery?     But  I  will 

bet  a  little  bottle  of  lait  de  Colombo,  or  even  of  Bouquet  de  Caro 
line,  ('tis  all  one  to  me,)  to  a  wanton  glance  of  Platonic  aifection 
from  my  first  fair  lady  reader,  that  she  does  not  know  how  the 
expression,  "Hurrah  for  h  —  1!  who's  afraid  of  fire?"  first 
originated.  Listen!  It  was  the  triumphant  "Eureka"  of  Dante, 
when  the  idea  of  writing  an  Inferno  first  flashed  upon  his  mind. 
And  never  shall  I  forget  the  memorable  evening  when  he  first 
announced  to  me  his  intention  of  "bringing  something  out" 
before  long.  "We  were  both  seated  on  the  identical  stone  oppo 
site  the  cathedral,  and  which  is  to  this  day  pointed  out  to  the 
stranger  as  the  "chair  of  Dante."  The  great  poet  held  between 
his  teeth,  cigar-fashion,  a  bunch  of  violets.  Twitching  away  the 
bouquet,  and  slapping  his  hand  violently  on  his  thigh,  he  ex 
claimed,  after  uttering  the  above-cited  expression,  "Yes,  Mcsser 
il  Corriero,  mark  my  words !  I'll  yet  write  a  book  which  shall 
make  such  a  fuss  in  the  world,  that  you'd  think  that  h — 1  was 
laying  eggs."*  Saying  this,  he  arose,  flung  the  corner  of  his 
cloak  over  his  left  shoulder,  and  vanished,  leaving  me  seated  on 
the  stone,  and  with  my  legs  stretched  out  over  the  pavement, 

*  The  reader  will  doubtless  agree  with  me  that  DANTE  must  have  derived 
this  quaint  figure  of  speech  from  the  legend  of  King  Ortnit  in  the  German  Ilel- 
denbuch,  or  from  one  of  the  Siegfried  Dragon  stories.  It  might  have  been 
communicated  to  him  by  one  of  the  German  workmen  employed  (according  to 
Vasari  and  the  Chronicle  of  Ghiberti)  in  the  erection  of  the  cathedral  around 
which  my  friend  Dante  was  so  fond  of  strolling.  Hell  itself  was  always  repre 
sented  in  mediaeval  Art  as  a  monster,  (vide  Mrs.  Jamison's  "Legendary  Art,") 
the  conceit  being  founded  on  the  scriptural  allusion  to  the  "jaws  of  hell." 


284  SKETCH-BOOK   OF   ME,  MEISTER   KARL. 

like  a  pair  of  notes  of  admiration  at  his  stupendous  genius ! ! 
Three  young  ladies  had  tripped  up  in  succession  over  them,  ere 
I  thought  of  arising  and  of  "  sloping"  likewise. 

But  I  remained  quiet  for  the  same  reason  that  the  English 
bard,  who  sang  in  praise  of  early  rising,  laid  in  bed  until  noon. 
I  had  no  motive  for  getting  up,  and  so  I  chanted — 

Si  qua  sede  sedes,  et  sit  tibi  commodae  sedes 
Ilia  scdo  sede,  nee  ab  ilia  sede  recede ! 

If  where  you  sit  should  prove  a  pleasant  seat, 
Then  still  sit  still,  nor  from  the  spot  retreat. 

And  finishing  the  seedy  couplet  with  a  whistle,  I  resigned 
myself  to  contemplate  the  groups  of  citizens  who  strolled  by;  the 
solitary  young  ladies  who  had  come  out  for  a  snifter  of  fresh  air, 
and  the  ghosts  who,  imperceptibly  to  mortal  eye,  stole  invisible 
and  unseen  around,  gliding,  sliding,  and  shooting  here  and  there, 
in  and  out,  up  and  down,  or  unconsciously,  as  it  were,  this  way 
round  the  corner  nevertheless,  by-and-by,  yet,  notwithstanding. 
All  of  these  classes  interested  me;  particularly  the  penultimate, 
or  last  but  one  ! 

But  after  bandying  compliments  with  the  various  Ghitas, 
Biancas,  Vincentias,  and  Mariolinas  who  passed,  I  thought  of 
the  many  spectres  of  the  past,  present,  and  future  "  big  bugs"  of 
this  world,  who  were  flitting  about  in  such  ungrammatical  con 
fusion.  And,  firstly,  I  observed  a  group  composed  of  phantoms, 
though  not  of  substantives,  in  on.  There  was  Aaron,  Solomon, 
Agamemnon,  Solon,  Bion,  Phocion,  Bacon,  Newton,  Johnson, 
Addison,  Crichton,  Person,  Buffon,  Montfaucon,  Crebillon,  Tillot- 
son,  Fenelon,  Massillon,  Warburton,  Warton,  Leighton,  Walton, 
Anacreon,  Ben  Jonson,  Milton,  Byron,  Thomson,  Chatterton, 
Xenophon,  Clarendon,  Haydon,  Gibbon,  Robertson,  Allison,  Nel 
son,  Allston,  Vernon,  Washington,  Napoleon,  Wellington,  D'Argen- 
son,  D'Augon,  Denon,  Belon,  Mine.  Blessington,  Sampson,  Scar- 
ron,  Maintenon,  Biron,  Bourbon,  Petion,  Loison,  Casrubon, 
Charron,  Del  Rincon,  Johann  Raphon,  Prudhon,  De  Crillon, 
Banton,  D'Erlon,  Melancthon,  Mondyon,  Perignon,  Bourguignon, 
Montholon,  Rapon,  Fulton,  Cymon,  Pyrrhon,  Perion,  Panta- 
leon,  Orion,  Meliton,  Jefferson,  Du  Jon,  Bignon,  Ve'ron,  Anti- 
phon,  Wilkinson,  Phillipon,  Audubon,  Wilson,  Muggleton, 
Hutchcson,  Simson,  Littleton,  Paxton,  Ferguson,  Macpherson, 


PAST   AND   PRESENT.  285 

Mason,  Jonah  Barrington,  Person,  Watson,  Amphion,  Bellero- 
phon,  Mammon,  Actaeon,  Autoleon,  Bergeon,  Ammon,  Abbaddon, 
Kit  Carson,  and  Phaon. 

To  these  succeeded  a  miscellaneous  multitude  of  secondary 
abstractions ;  among  which  or  whom  I  observed  Capon,  Suction, 
Paragon,  Phlogiston,  Hyperion,  Try-it-on,  on  dit,  Carrion,  Cor- 
net-a-Piston,  Demon,  Poison,  On,  Stanley,  on !  with  an  horrific 
lot  of  other  ons,  which  would  induce  aberrati-on  and  confusi-on, 
if  I  should  go  on.  I  only  remember,  as  a  parting  fact,  that  the 
last  to  whom  I  gave  my  benison  was  the  celebrated  Polisson,  who 
bore  on  his  arm  the  pale  and  peerless  beauty,  Mile.  Bon-ton;  but 
both  were  unfortunately  a  little  "  sprung,"  having  lingered  long 
at  the  spring  of  Helicon  ! 

"JTis  well,"  said  I,  as  the  wild  fluttering  train  swept  on  in 
visibly  through  houses,  posts,  and  passengers,  (I  saw  Crebillon 
myself  fly  straight  through  a  black-eyed  beauty,  who  did  not 
seem  in  the  least  aware  of  being  made  a  thorough-fair,) — "  'tis 
well ! — ye  have  flitted  your  brief  hour  on  earth,  or  ye  will  do  it 
at  least  some  future  day,  (for  it  makes  very  little  difference  ivhcn 
a  man  lives,  seeing  that  he  can  only  live  once;'}  and  now  ye 
swim  on  circumambient  waves  of  ethereal  nothingness  around 
the  reality  of  dreams  !  Some  day  I  shall  be  with  ye,  and  then 
live  only  in  the  lazy  fantasies  of  some  after-coming  friend,  or 
haply  as  a  damaged  tombstone,  which,  when  flat,  may  serve  at 
noon  as  a  table  for  rustic  bread  and  cheese,  or  by  moonlight  as 
the  rendezvous  or  trysting-sofa  for  enamoured  young  couples. 

Let  'em  went! — 

The  night  is  mother  of  the  day, 

The  winter  of  the  spring; 
And  ever  upon  old  decay, 

The  greenest  mosses  cling. 

Let  her  went,  let  'er  rip,  letter  B,  let  'er  cirkelate  !  Sessa — let 
the  world  slide !  I  understand  it  not :  the  dim  mysteries  of 
being  have  not  been  opened  to  me  nor  to  my  friends,  nor  have  I 
an  idea  beyond  the  Beautiful  as  coessential  with  Goodness  and 
Truth — all  other  inventions,  whether  patented  or  otherwise,  being 
Shams,  Flams,  and  Crams,  and  most  fully  described  by  the 
Turkish  word  Bosh,  ^j  <^£  or  empty — a  word  which,  to  the  ever 
lasting  disgrace  of  the  Russians,  is  in  their  language  applied  to 
things  divine.  * 


286  SKETCH-BOOK    OF   ME,    MEISTER    KARL. 

And  as  I  sat  thus  musing,  behold  there  came,  "moseying" 
along,  yet  another  ghost.  As  he  approached  rue,  he  paused, 
and,  gazing  up  into  his  face,  I  recognised  the  spirit  of  the  an 
cient  astrologer  STROZZO  STROZZI,  who  died  in  the  year  1048. 
I  greeted  him,  and  rising,  led  the  way  to  the  ancient  Baptistery, 
or  Church  of  St.  John,  which  was  then,  as  now,  one  of  the  most 
interesting  buildings  in  Europe.  We  entered,  and  pausing,  I 
pointed  to  that  quaint  relic  in  the  pavement,  which  has  in  all 
ages  puzzled  travellers  and  antiquarians :  I  refer  to  the  figure  of 
the  sun,  surrounded  in  a  circle  by  a  verse  which  may  be  read 
either  way,  "and  does  not  make  much  sense  any  way," — 

EN   GIRO   TORTE   SOL   CICLOS   ET   ROTOR   IGNE. 

"You,"  said  I,  addressing  the  ghost,  "are  said  to  be  the 
author  of  the  inscription.  Now  tell  me,  if  you  please,  in  plain 
words,  avoiding  all  manner  of  Van  Buren  non-committalism, 
what  the  mischief  it  means ;  that  is,  if  it  means  any  thing,  and 
if  not,  what  the  deuce  did  you  put  it  here  for  ?" 

Something  like  a  wink  trembled  in  the  left  eye  of  the  ancient, 
as  he  replied — 

"The  books  of  Livy  were  lost;  but  the  Poemander  of  Hermes 
remained.  Had  I  placed  there,  0  Maestro  Carlo,  a  plain,  sen 
sible,  one-way  hexameter,  embodying  a  scientific  fact  or  moral 
maxim,  it  would  have  been  swept  away  long  ago.  I  placed  it 
there,  0  signore,  that  it  might  NOT 'be  understood,  and  ages 
shall  come  and  go,  and  nations  pass,  and  the  ashes  of  empires 
be  swept  away  by  the  housemaid  Time  into  the  dust-heap  of 
oblivion,  ere  it  be  comprehended  or  /be  forgotten.  The  German 
and  the  Norseman,  the  Scythian  and  Yankee,  will  see  it  and  re 
member  it,  because  they  could  make  nothing  of  it.  English 
tourists,  who  have  forgotten  their  note-books,  will  tear  off  their 
starched  collars  and  copy  it  thereon  rather  than  lose  it ;  guide 
books  will  explain  it,  and  some  folks  who  think  themselves  ever 
lastingly  cute  (and  ain't)  will  put  it  into  books  of  travel,  and 
feel  considerably  mean  at  reflecting  on  the  many  things  current 
of  which  they  can  make  nothing." 

And  with  these  words  the  Shadowy  Form  faded  away  in  the 
broad  moonlight.  I  gazed  after  him,  and  as  he  evaporated,  a 
feeling  stole  over  me  distantly  akin  to  that  of  one  who  has 
been  sold. 


PAST    AND    PRESENT.  287 

"Venerable  man  I"  said  I,  "thou  too  art  one  of  'em — one  of 
the  mighty  brotherhood  who  have  engraved  their  names  on  the 
brass  of  centuries,  for  thou  readest  the  human  heart  i  like  a  book/ 
and  canst  cut  into  humbug  'like  a  knife.'  Omne  ignotum,  &c. — 
not  what  we  see,  but  what  we  don't  see,  is  what  we  most  admire; 
and  that  which  is  most  attractive  to  man  loses  its  charm  unless 
enveloped  in  some  suggestive  mystery.  What  were  beer  without 
froth — nuts  without  shells — learning  without  labour — Madeira 
without  mould — maidens  without  muslin  ?  Our  very  selfishness 
is  centred  not  upon  our  soul  and  heart  of  hearts,  but  upon  the 
ornaments,  graces,  beauties,  and  gim-crackeries  which  gather 
around  and  hide  our  manly  inner  being,  and  attract  our  every 
thought,  even  as  the  devotion  of  the  worshippers  in  this  Bap 
tistery  of  St.  John  is  drawn  by  the  symbols  -and  marbles  of  the 
newer  Roman  faith  which  they  behold  around,  but  give  no  heed 
meanwhile  to  the  stern  old  heathen  temple  of  Mars  which  lurks 
enclosed  in  it — a  wall  within  a  wall." 

Let  it  slide,  reader — let  it  slide  :  this  chapter,  at  least,  I  trust, 
has  broken  no  brains ;  for,  most  assuredly,  they  who  have  con 
descended  to  be  puzzled  therewith  have  got  none.  He  who 
wrote  it  was  fiddle  both  in  French  and  German,  rejoicing  greatly 
when  he  heard  the  dinner-bell,  and  was  glad  in  summer  when 
the  wind  blew  north-west.  And  he  loved  to  see  brothers  join 
together  in  unity — "liabitare  fratres  in  unum,"  (as  the  monks 
did  when  they  combined  at  a  long  pull,  a  strong  pull,  and  a  pull 
altogether,  to  pitch  the  father  abbot  out  of  the  .window;)  so  that 
he  made  many  friends  even  among  the  non-existent,  and  all  for 
thy  sake,  0  reader  and  friend  ! 

"  Et  parcatis  miki" — and  pardon  him  that  he  writes  as  others 
think,  and  is  so  careless  "scribendo  ad  dominationem  vestram" 
— in  writing  to  your  magnificence,  for  it  is  his  custom  "  quod 
sum  social  is  cum  amicis  meis" — to  be  merry  with  his  friends. 
Valete  ! 

Ita  vixit  ille  rector, 

Er  wollt's  nicht  ahders  han  ; 
Vale  semper  bone  lector, 

Lug  du  und  stoss  dich  dran  ! 

Gut  Gesell  1st  Rinckman  ! 

So  lived  that  jolly  preacher 

Who  would  not  stop  to  pick ; 
Farewell  to  thee,  good  creature; 


288  SKETCH-BOOK   OF   ME,   MEISTER   KARL. 

Take  care — and  then  fall  sick  ! 
Oh  Rinckman  is  a  brick ! ! 

And  as  the  epitaph  said  of  the  man  who  died  on  his  birth-day- 
"Go  thou  and  do  likewise." 


CHAPTER   THE   THIRTY-THIRD. 
SHORT'S   PHILOSOPHY,   IN   WHICH   CHAPTER  THE  READER   is 

REQUESTED    TO     EXERCISE     GREAT    PATIENCE     FOR    SEVERAL 
PAGES. 

IT  is  not  in  the  power  of  every  one  to  taste  humour,  however  ho  may  wish  it : 
it  is  the  gift  of  God,  and  a  true  feeder  always  brings  half  the  entertainment 
along  with  him.  STERNE. 

MORE  than  once  have  I,  Friend  Reader,  during  the  course  of 
these  chapters,  given  thee  glimpses  of  my  friend  Wolf  Short — 
of  his  doings  and  drivings,  failings  and  thrivings.  It  may  be 
that  thou  wouldst  have  been  more  grateful  had  I  brought  him 
out  less  frequently,  or  had  I  let  him  relapse  more  into  that  active 
obscurity  from  which  he  delights  to  see  without  being  seen.  But 
the  Wolf  is  one  who,  once  meddled  with,  is  not  readily  dismissed. 
"  Facile  vocaveris  Cacodsemon,"  saith  the  learned  and  neglected 
GOLTZIUS,  used  vocatum  non  facile  repuleris," — meaning  that 
it  is  easy  to  raise  the  devil,  and  hard  to  lay  him. 

My  young  friends — ye  who  are  just  budding  into  verdancy — 
beware  of  wolves — of  the  terrible  "loups  ravlssans"  and  par 
ticularly  of  Wolves  Shorts.  They  will  lead  you  astray  when 
older  grown,  afar  from  green  pastures  and  daisied  fields,  over  wild 
mountains  and  into  fair,  forbidden  gardens;  that  is,  if  they 
choose  to  bother  themselves  with  you,  which  is  not,  on  the  whole, 
very  likely. 

Experience !  Experience !  Experience  ! !  She  is  the  mother 
of  Wisdom — the  aunt  of  Happiness — the  mistress  of  all  that 
is  bad — the  nurse  of  all  that  is  good.  Through  what  blind  alleys 
of  folly,  over  what  ruins  of  recklessness  must  we  grope,  and 
what  paths  must  we  travel  in,  ere  we  attain  the  elixir  of  life — 
the  veritable  Moyen  de  Parvenir  !  And  how  many  there  are  who 
break  down  on  the  road  ! 


SHORT'S  PHILOSOPHY.  289 

A  priest  who  hath  lived  a  year  in  jail, 
And  a  year  hath  roamed  with  a  pirate  sail, 
And  a  year  hath  gambled  for  daily  bread, 
And  a  year  by  the  practice  of  law  been  fed, 
And  a  year  hath  bullied  for  ladies  loose, 
And  a  year  as  hangman  hath  tied  the  noose, 
And  a  year  in  taverns  hath  served  his  time, 
And  a  year  on  the  highway  grown  hard  in  crime, 
And  a  year  been  beggar  from  high  and  low, — 
Will  make  a  good  Father  Confessor,  I  trow. 

There  is  very  bad  matter  in  these  rhymes,  (albeit  there  are  in 
the  original  Low  German  far  worse  rhymes  to  the  matter.)  They 
indicate  a  very  miry  series  of  experiences ;  and  he  who  believes 
that  the  only  pathway  to  the  purer  regions,  where  sublime  Wis 
dom  sits  enthroned,  lies  through  them,  is  an  ass. 

And  yet  we  must  learn  to  distrust  much — more's  the  pity! — 
not  only  in  individuals,  but  even  in  entire  races,  (meaning,  of 
course,  horse-races;)  for  there  is  much  in  many  which  slays 
the  soul,  and  is  worth  noting.  Four  hundred  years  ago,  mo 
ralists  held  that  the  following  articles  were  worth  about  as  much 
as  a  cat's  feather  or  a  hog's  horn  : — 

Bohemian  monk  or  Swabian  nun, 

Carthusian  shrift,  though  trebly  done, 

A  Polish  bridge  and  faith  of  Wends, 

With  Gipsey  grief  for  stealing  hens, 

Italian  piety  and  prayer, 

A  Spaniards's  oath,  though  deep  he  swear, 

Fasts  which  the  German  keeps  alone, 

Or  virgin  bred  in  fair  Cologne, 

A  lovely  daughter  sunken  low, 

A  deep  red  beard — an  alder  bow, — 

For  all  thirteen,  I  well  believe, 

No  man  of  sense  a  rush  would  give. 

With  the  exception  of  the  "  Carthusian  shrift,"  Wolf  had  had 
some  experience  of  all  the  items  in  this  baker's  dozen,  and  had 
arrived  at  the  same  conclusion  with  old  Meister  Peter  Wetzel, 
author  of  the  above-cited  Priameln,  as  such  rhymes  were 
anciently  termed. 

The  Wolf  was,  in  fact,  deeply  addicted  to  quaint  proverbial 
literature,  which  was  re-echoed  in  his  thoughts  and  life;  and  I 
have  more  than  once  surmised,  from  his  singular  choice  of  books, 
that  he  believed  that  authors  who  were  but  little  known  were 
best  worth  reading.  "For,"  said  he,  "the  gold  invariably  sinks 


290  SKETCH-BOOK    OF    ME,    MEISTER    KARL. 

to  the  bottom  of  the  pan ;  and  it  is  with  literature  as  with  love — 
the  best  part  thereof  is  ever  hidden  from  view/'  So  that  he 
often  read  himself  to  sleep  with  Frischlinus  or  Bebelius,  and 
would  then  lie  half  an  hour  in  bed  the  next  morning,  perusing 
Sebastian  Brandt's  "Ship  of  Fools,"  by  way  of  sermons  and  soda- 
water.  For  he  held  that  there  was  a  time  and  a  place  for  all 
things,  alleging  in  proof  thereof,  not  Solomon,  as  you,  or  I,  or  any 
ordinary  sensible  Christian  would  have  done,  but  a  certain  an 
tique  and  mirific  gloss  on  the  text,  extracted,  in  I  know  not  what 
year,  from  some  jolly  old  black-letter,  vellum  volume,  hidden 
with  as  much  mystery  as  masonry,  in  some  curious  corner  of  the 
Heidelberg  Library — 

Welcher  lay  sein  vasten  und  andacht 

Spart  bis  an  die  vassnacht, 

Und  bis  an  ain  dantz  diemuthigkait, 

Zu  schonen  frawen  rew  und  laid, 

Und  bis  in  ain  weinhaus  sein  gebet, 

So  er  spilt  in  dem  bret, 

Und  sein  zucht  spart,  bis  er  wurt  vol, 

Fur  weiss  man  in  nit  halten  sol. 

"Which  may  be  thus  Englished  : — 

He  who  lays  vows  and  fasting  all 

Aside  until  the  Carnival, 

Or  keeps  for  a  dance  his  humble  prnyer, 

And  his  grief  or  sorrow  for  ladies  fair, 

And  his  pious  thoughts  till  he  drink  or  piny, 

And  his  prudence  till  all  be  gambled  away, 

And  his  modest  looks  or  chastity 

Till  warmed  with  love  or  kisses  free, 

Whate'er  he  questions  or  replies, 

But  few,  I  trow,  will  hold  him  wise. 

But  wo  is  me! — I  see  most  plainly  in  illustrating  Wolf,  I  have 
gone  beyond  my  subject.  What  was  the  conclusion  arrived  at 
by  Peter  Wetzel  in  the  recently-cited  Priam  eln  ?  What  deep 
wisdom  is  latent  in  the  assertion  that  a  Swabian  nun,  a  Bohemian 
monk,  a  Polish  bridge,  &c.  are  worthless  ? 

It  is,  that  a  vast  amount  of  the  things,  persons,  customs,  and 
doctrines  reverenced  by  the  vulgar  world  are  undoubtedly  con 
ventional  trash;  but  that  the  true  philosopher,  instead  of  break 
ing  his  heart  and  happiness  over  it,  finds  in  it  all  deep  cause  for 
dry,  humorous  reflection,  or,  better  still,  for  indulging  in  that 


SHORT'S  PHILOSOPHY.  291 

verse  which  embodies  in  itself  the  very  ultra-essence  of  all  ima 
ginable  wisdom — 

Thus  runs  the  world  away. 

Sic  vita — telle  est  la  vie — so  we  go !  On  it  roars,  the  mighty  tide 
of  being.  To-day,  0  reader,  I  am  happy — to-morrow,  thou ;  and 
it  may  be  that  on  the  third  morning  we  are  both  in  a  red-pepper 
rage  at  the  good  fortune  of  some  dear  friend ;  for  every  dog  is 
grieved  when  he  sees  another  slip  into  the  kitchen.  But  the  tide 
still  roars  on,  and  the  foolish  straws  and  dust  which  float  on  the 
surface  swim  as  much  at  their  ease  as  if  no  abyss  lay  before 
them. 

And  what  if  there  do  ?  0  reader  mine,  if  the  great  majority 
of  the  men  and  women  whom  we  daily  meet  really  believe  or 
disbelieve  in  immortality,  what  idiots  must  they  be,  to  judge  from 
their  lives !  On  the  tide  roars,  however,  sweeping  with  it  sticks 
and  dirt,  ladies  and  loafers,  Madeira  and  manuscripts,  philoso 
phers  and  philosophized.  Well — as  the  American  Sunday  papers 
joyously  say — "Let  her  went!" 

Yes,  "let  her  went/'  or  "let  her  slide,"  ('tis  all  the  same  to 
me.)  "When  Hamlet  has  for  the  first  time  fully  and  fairly  real 
ized  the  truth  of  the  ghost's  terrible  revelation  —  when  the 
damning  guilt  of  mother  and  uncle  are  proved  at  a  flash,  and 
with  it  his  own  fearful  wrongs, — what  conclusion  does  he,  the 
great,  noble,  practical  philosopher,  arrive  at  ? — Why — at  "let  her 
went !"  of  course. 

Why  let  the  stricken  'deer  go  weep, 

The  hart  ungalled  play ; 
For  some  must  watch  while  some  must  sleep : 

Thus  runs  the  icorld  aioay! 

And  then  the  great  earnest  tragedy  of  Life  begins.  He  does  not 
as  other  mortals  would  do,  for  he  remembers  that  for  the  present 
he  lives  in  the  world,  and  for  want  of  better  occupation  conforms 
to  its  customs.  He  can  be  splenetic — enraged — fantastic  :  physi 
cal  humours  will  perchance  have  it  so,  and  even  a  Titan  may 
have  the  neuralgia, — but,  at  the  first  recalment  of  bis  great 
philosophy,  and  of  the  wondrous  law  of  life,  they  all  fade  like 
vapours  before  the  sun,  and  all  that  remains  is  a  flock  of  gnat- 
like  fancies,  sporting  wildly  in  the  light.  So  it  goes — Let  her 

went  I 

25* 


292  SKETCH-BOOK    OF    ME,    MEISTER    KARL. 

There  are  many  people — and  among  them  more  females  than 
men — who  unconsciously  live  and  breathe  in  the  spirit  of  "  Let 
her  went !"  I  have  sometimes  thought  that  such  gifted  ones, 
when  of  a  thoroughly  heartless  nature,  (such  is  not  Hamlet,) 
must  be  impenetrable  to  every  shaft  of  other  than  physical 
annoyance.  Even  now  I  am  thinking  of  one  who  never  lacked 
in  conversation  or  in  life  either  energy  or  earnestness.  But  turn 
upon  her  suddenly  when  making  any  assertion  whatever,  even  of 
the  most  trivial  kind,  fix  your  eye  upon  hers,  and  the  veil  would 
fall.  She  spoke  to  make  you  speak,  or  she  built  a  barricade  of 
fair  words,  from  behind  which  she  watched  unseen  your  move 
ments.  You  little  suspected  it,  but,  in  conversation,  she  was 
always  looking  from  the  window,  and  you  were  always  in  the 
street.  Her  soul  laughed  to  her  spirit,  and  both  laughed  at  you. 
By-the-way,  she  had  a  strange  laugh,  folks  said.  "  Yes — very 
strange  !"  quoth  the  Wolf,  musingly.  His  laughs  were  generally 
made  manifest  by  an  extra  puff  of  tobacco-smoke,  or  by  con 
tracting  his  nether  lip.  Detect  that  lady  full  in  the  act  of 
letting  the  world  slide,  and  she  would  burst  into  a  sudden,  star 
tled  laugh  by  way  of  covering  her  retreat.  People  thought  her 
"a  little  odd."  So  did  not  the  Wolf. 

That  philosopher  has  yet  to  be  born  who  can  satisfactorily 
explain  how  it  is  that  the  world,  with  a  full  consciousness  of  its 
own  experience  and  a  tolerably  accurate  conception  of  that  of 
several  thousand  antecedent  years,  can  still  go  on  casting  itself 
headlong,  heart  and  soul,  into  the  extremely  dangerous  game  of 
life;  or  how  it  is  that  the  great  majority  of  those  playing  con 
trive  to  believe  that  the  game  is  worth  the  candle.  Wine  and 
woman,  wealth  and  health,  books  and  cooks,  will  not  make 
existence  even  tolerable,  unless  their  possessor  has  got  as  far  as 
whistling.  He  who  has  learned  a  little  whistling,  may  indeed 
contrive  to  keep  comfortable  and  bide  his  time  until  a  better 
state  of  things  turns  up.  Otherwise  he  is  but  badly  off. 

"  Oh,  heavens !  it  is  mysterious,  it  is  awful  to  consider !"  as 
Tom  Carlyle  says,  not  that  we  are  ghosts,  but  that  amid  the 
immensity  of  moral  and  mental  instruction  with  which  this 
world  is  filled,  there  should  be  no  academies  for  whistling.  Nay 
— not  so  much  as  a  mere  handbook  or  hornbook  for  that  all- 
important  purpose;  albeit  very  great  libraries  are  extant  which 
profess  to  teach  its  equivalents.  Do  they  so  ? 


SHORT'S  PHILOSOPHY.  293 

Now  "VVolf  Short  was  an  adept  in  whistling.  He  seldom  spun 
it  out  to  a  tune — sometimes  it  went  not  beyond  a  bar — but  it 
expressed  more  than  an  opera.  To  my  mind,  it  came  nearer 
sphere-music  than  any  other,  for  it  indicated  a  mind  singularly 
and  strangely  raised  above  most  earthly  misfortune,  and  open  to 
naught  save  humour.  And  one  day,  as  I  listened  to  that  mar 
vellous  chirp  of  his,  which  announced  that  some  mighty  disaster 
or  wonderful  good  fortune  had  just  occurred,  (either  the  death 
of  a  pet  or  the  sudden  extinction  of  a  lucifer  match,  an  unex 
pected  heritage  or  the  discovery  of  a  lost  bundle  of  regalias,) — 
it  seemed  that  it  breathed  forth  something  like  a  poem ;  and  if 
it  be  not  too  vain  of  me,  I  would  say  something  like  the  follow 
ing  poem,  which  was  then  written  extemporal  at  an  interval 
of  an  hour  between  each  verse,  and  a  month  between  the  two 
halves. 

MANES. 

There's  a  time  to  be  jolly, 

A  time  to  repent, 
A  season  for  folly, 

A  season  for  Lent ; 
The  first  as  the  worst 

We  too  often  regard ; 
The  rest  as  the  best,— 

But  our  judgment  is  hard  : 
Why  grin  we,  or  snivel 

At  that  which  a  day 
Sees  blown  to  the  devil, 

And  vanish'd  away. 

There  is  snow  in  December, 

And  roses  in  June; 
There's  darkness  at  midnight, 

And  sunshine  at  noon  : 
But  were  there  no  sorrow, 

No  storm-cloud,  or  rain, 
Who'd  care  for  the  morrow, 

With  beauty  again  ?  t 

All  soon  finds  its  level, 

The  grave  or  the  gay  ; 
Then  blows  to  the  devil, 

And  passes  away. 

The  world  is  a  picture 

Both  gloomy  and  bright, 
And  pain  is  the  shadow, 

And  pleasure  the  light; 


294  SKETCH-BOOK   OF   ME;    MEISTER   KARL 

And  neither  should  smother 

The  general  tone; 
For  where  were  the  other 

If  either  were  gone  ? 
The  good  and  the  evil 

Must  each  have  their  day, 
Then  blow  to  the  devil, 

And  vanish  away. 

The  valley  is  lovely, 

The  mountain  is  drear, 
Its  summit  is  hidden 

In  mist  half  the  year : 
But  gaze  from  the  heavens 

High  over  all  weather, 
And  mountain  and  valley 

Are  lovely  together  ; 
Yet  brief  as  a  revel, 

This  lovely  array 
Must  blow  to  the  devil, 

And  vanish  away. 

I  have  learned  to  love  Lucy, 

Though  faded  she  be : 
If  my  next  love  be  lovely, 

The  better  for  me  ; 
By  the  end  of  next  summer, 

I'll  swear  on  my  oath, 
It  was  best  after  all 

To  have  flirted  with  both. 
But  kind  or  uncivil 

Ill-natured  or  gay, 
They'll  blow  to  the  devil, 

And  vanish  away. 

"  Oh  look  on  the  bright  side  !" 

A  wooden  head  cries; 
"  Be  taught  by  reverses  !" 

A  sap-head  replies. 
Give  the  gold  its  alloy, 

And  unless  you  are  stupid, 
Think  well  of  grim  Pluto 

While  worshipping  Cupid. 
Fine  bread  hath  its  weevil, 

Sweet  sugar  its  clay, 
Until  to  the  devil 

They  moulder  away. 

In  London  or  Munich, 

Vienna  or  Rome, 
The  sago  is  contented 

And  finds  him  a  home  : 


SHORT'S  PHILOSOPHY.  295 

He  learns  all  that  is  bad, 

And  does  all  that  is  good; 
And  will  bite  at  the  apple 

By  field  or  by  flood; 
Till  Paris  and  Seville, 

And  all  their  array, 
With  the  world  to  the  devil 

Have  vanish'd  away. 

— Yea,  until  Ormuzd  and  Ahrimanes  have  pitched  into  each 
other  like  Kilkenny  cats,  leaving  no  vestige  behind,  or  until 
Ormuzd  is  fairly  victorious — I  forget  which  is  to  be  the  inevit 
able  result;  until  Harlequin,  Pantaloon,  Columbine,  and  other 
extreme  relics  of  that  which  was  once  in  the  olden  days  a  vast 
and  wondrous  faith,  have  passed  away  like  a  dream. 

Reader,  did  it  ever  occur  to  you  while  gazing  in  some  second- 
rate  theatre  at  some  third-rate  Christmas  melodrama  or  panto 
mime,  that  you  were  unconsciously  assisting  at  the  last  rites  of 
that  which  was  originally  a  religion  ?  Through  the  mysteries  of 
the  Middle  Ages,  and  hand  in  hand  with  that  popular  and 
literal  Christianity  from  which  it  so  radically  differed,  the  pan- 
tomine  myth  came  with  free  masonry  from  the  far  East,  where, 
in  cavernous  temples  and  amid  philosophic  priests,  it  had  been 
nursed  for  ages.  And  so  much  of  the  original  form  still  remains, 
that  we  can  readily  detect  in  it  an  ancient  Baphometic  origin. 
There  are  the  higher  and  lower  grades  of  evil,  set  forth  by  the 
master  and  servant,  or,  as  I  last  saw  it,  by  the  wicked  count 
and  his  rascally  flour-white  valet,  Nbucum.  Then  there  is  the 
fair  Columbine  and  her  lover  Harlequin,  who,  under  the  protec 
tion  of  a  certain  good  principle  or  "  brick"  of  a  fairy,  undergo 
much  persecution  from  the  Count  and  Co.,  yet  ever  escape,  turn 
ing  the  tricks  of  the  evil  ones  against  themselves.  At  last,  the 
good  principle,  wearied  by  the  untiring  obstinacy  of  the  one 
couple,  and  softened  by  the  resolute  piety,  love,  and  constancy  of 
the  other,  resolves  on  a  complete  regeneration,  which  accordingly 
takes  place,  and  Columbine  comes  out  like  a  butterfly  from  the 
chrysalis,  as  do  indeed  all  the  others.  But  their  natures  in  this 
new  form,  though  intensified,  are  unchanged,  and  their  mutual 
improvement  and  "ruination"  proceeds  in  inverse  ratio,  until 
the  final  crises  of  apotheosis  and  utter  destruction  ensue. 

The  truly  interesting  character  in  this  world-old  story  is  to  me 
the  unfortunate  White  Face  or  Pierrot- Yalet.  Endowed  with 


296  SKETCH-BOOK    OF    ME,'    MEISTER    KARL. 

miraculous  powers,  he  cannot  keep  out  of  the  simplest  scrapes, 
and  alternates  the  stupidest  blunders  with  masterpieces  of 
shrewd,  humorous  rascality,  through  which,  however,  dimly 
flashes  a  faint  diabolical  gleam,  indicating  a  soul  which  in  its 
kernel  is  any  thing  but  funny.  What  an  epitome  is  this  of  the 
career  of  most  poor  knaves,  to  whom  talent  appears  to  have  been 
given  simply  to  darken  their  disgraces !  The  curious  stoicism  of 
the  Heinrich-Heine  White  Face,  and  the  eternal  wink  or  knowing 
nod  with  which  he  rises  phoenix-like  from  all  his  flattenings-out, 
grindings  to  powder,  hangings,  and  dismemberments,  typifies  not 
inaptly  the  vast  fund  of  practical  worldly  philosophy  which  is 
needed  to  carry  even  an  ordinary  knave  through  a  rascally  career. 
With  what  a  knowing  air  and  "  Here-we-are-again-how-are-you  ?" 
look  does  he  rise  from  the  caldron  in  which  he  has  been  boiled,  and 
wink  to  the  audience  world  as  if  martyrdom  were  an  excellent  joke ! 
Reader !  that  caldron  is  older  than  Medea's,  and  the  legend  of  the 
Colchian  sorceress  is  a  mere  filagree,  rococo  imitation  of  yesterday, 
compared  with  the  hoar  antiquity  of  the  pantomime  kettle. 

Modern  civilization  has,  however,  given  birth  to  a  better  va 
riety  of  White  Face,  or  rather  White  Face  has,  with  the  march 
of  mind,  greatly  amended  his  manners.  In  the  ancient  time, 
poor  Pierrot  (whose  misfortunes,  by-the-way,  always  seemed  to 
me  to  spring  less  from  real  wickedness  than  from  following  too 
faithfully  a  bad  master)  was  unanimously  regarded  as  a  scape 
grace  knave,  and  as  one  given  over  incurably  to  the  devil.  Now, 
however,  we  are  beginning  to  admit  that  it  is  rather  too  bad  to 
burn  Leporello  in  the  same  hot-bed  with  Don  Juan ;  and  a  few 
have  found,  that  with  a  different  teacher  and  a  different 
"broughten  up,"  his  invincible  humour  might  be  advantageously 
employed  on  the  side  of  goodness  and  truth.  We  are  in  the 
world,  and  of  it,  and  must  make  the  best  we  can  of  it.  The  old 
pantomime  myth  was  born  of  the  absorbing  Oriental  asceticism 
which  regarded  the  world  and  life,  with  all  its  joys  and  sorrows, 
as  idle  and  wicked,  and  which  saw  a  sin  in  every  smile,  and  a 
bagatelle  in  the  extreme  of  earthly  suffering.  In  modern  times, 
men  are  beginning  to  find  that  it  is  possible  to  be  both  merry 
and  wise,  and  that  Satan  has  hitherto  been  allowed  to  retain  in 
his  armoury  many  peculiar  weapons  to  which  he  has  neither  right 
nor  title.  In  later  times,  the  drama,  that  truest  reflex  of  the 
popular  mind,  has  occasionally  given  a  good  turn  to  poor  Pierrot, 


SHORT'S  PHILOSOPHY.  297 

for  Shakspeare's  Gobbo  is  a  recognition  of  his  better  qualities ; 
and  not  long  since,  I  witnessed  a  comedy,  "  Calaynos,"  by 
BOKER,  in  which  the  scapegrace,  as  Pulti,  fairly  redeems  him 
self,  although,  by  long  force  of  habit,  he  finds  it  impossible  to 
shake  off  his  innumerable  diabolical  and  infernal  associations, 
and  perpetually  sings  verses  about  a  certain  devil,  who  was  very 
probably  himself  ere  the  curtain  rose  on  his  reformation. 

"  Thus  runs  the  world  away  !"  Alas  !  that  so  much  gloomy 
sin  should  rise  to  its  surface,  and  so  much  merry  wisdom  be  sunk 
in  its  dancing  waters  !  For  the  true  philosopher,  as  for  him  of 
Abdera,  the  world  and  life  is  full  of  dry  wit  and  gleaming  with 
humour.  He  estimates  the  sorrows  and  pains  of  life  at  their 
real  value,  (and  he  who  can  do  this  suffers  but  little;)  while,  on 
the  other  side,  the  quaint,  marvellous,  fantastic  inspirations  of 
life  are  a  never-ending  joy.  For  him  the  world  is  radiant  with 
side-splitting  laughter — alas  !  that  so  few  like  him  are  privileged 
to  detect  it.  The  sunlight  and  rainbow  are  excellent  jokes  to 
the  one  who  understands  them,  and  bees,  and  birds,  and  scenery 
would  call  forth  frequent  "  roars  from  the  boxes,"  if  the  boxes 
could  only  "take." 

0  reader !  had  you  in  your  mind 

Such  stores  as  silent  thought  can  bring; 

0  gentle  reader !  you  would  find 
Some  fun  in  every  thing. 

"Ah  !"  exclaimed  Wolf  one  morning,  shaking  his  head  mis- 
givingly  at  his  pipe ;  "  you're  a  sad  dog — a  ve-ry  sad  dog !" 
Some  mysterious  sympathy  appeared  to  interest  Wolf  greatly  in 
the  moral  welfare  of  several  inanimate  pets  in  his  room.  Chief 
among  them  was  an  ancient  timepiece,  which  was  an  object  of 
peculiar  solicitude.  Often  have  I  heard  him  in  the  silent 
watches  of  the  night  addressing  to  it  words  of  consolation  or  of 
reproof,  until  I  could  almost  fancy  that  in  its  monotonous  ticking 
I  distinguished  monosyllabic  answers.  When  out  of  time,  Clock 
always  came  in  for  a  scolding,  ending  with  the  threat — 

"And  mind,  now!  go  wrong  again,  and,  as  sure  as  1  live,  I'll 
cut  your  pendulum  off  I" 

Humour  or  philosophy  is  a  neutral  weapon  belonging  to  him 
that  finds  it,  and  by  no  means  meriting  abuse  because  men  have 
used  it  with  fearful  effect  against  both -truth  and  falsehood,  sacri 
ficing  all  things  to  inordinate  pride  and  misanthropy.  Such  a 


298  SKETCH-BOOK    OF    ME,    MEISTER    KARL. 

man  is  Heinrich  Heine,  the  German  Jew,  who  is  in  many  re 
spects  one  of  the  most  remarkable  writers  of  the  age,  not  only  as 
regards  his  own  productions,  but  on  account  of  the  activity  and 
agitation  which  his  writings  have  at  different  times  excited 
among  contemporaries. 

I  once  had  the  pleasure  to  meet  at  Montpellier,  ST.  RfiNft 
TAILLANDIER,  who  has  been  pronounced  by  the  first  literary 
journal  of  Germany  to  be  more  familiar  with  the  literature  of 
that  country  than  any  other  Frenchman  living.  In  illustration 
of  what  I  have  said  in  this  chapter  on  Humour,  I  will  quote  an 
extract  from  a  recent  review  of  Heine  by  Taillandier — an  article 
which  does  full  justice  to  the  abilities  of  both  writers.  Before 
proceeding  further,  it  may  be  necessary  to  state  that  Heine  has, 
for  many  years,  been  subject  to  incredible  physical  sufferings, 
lingering  a  death  in  life,  between  two  worlds  : — 

"  In  vain  has  Time  kept  on  his  course;  in  vain  has  suffering — 
a  frightful,  pitiless  suffering — laid  its  leaden  hands  on  the  wings 
of  his  fantasy ;  for  fantasy  has  triumphed  and  flown  afar  !  Be 
hold  him  on  his  bed  of  suffering,  as  artists  have  represented  him ; 
observe  his  finely-formed  and  pensive  head,  where  physical  pain 
seems  more  keenly  to  accuse  the  originality  of  his  inner  life ;  and 
remark  that  which  rays  forth  from  the  delicacy  of  his  complexion 
— the  smile  of  his  lips — the  half-closed  glance  which  catches 
only  a  faint  gleam  of  light !  Whence  comes  this  immovable 
serenity  ?  It  is  the  victory  of  humour  over  the  cruelest  suffer 
ings  which  can  chain  the  flight  of  the  soul.  How  great  are  the 
contradictions  which  occur  between  books  and  conduct !  His 
tory  can  tell  us  of  more  than  one  spiritual  writer  whose  life  was 
a  contradiction  of  his  theory.  But  if,  on  the  contrary,  we  re 
proach  the  poet  for  having  too  warmly  preached  the  religion  of 
sense  and  beauty,  with  what  an  incredible  facility  does  he  show 
himself  superior  to  his  doctrines  !  At  the  very  instant  in  which 
all  that  he  loves  escapes  him — when  form  vanishes,  colour  escapes 
— when  the  worship  of  Hellenism,  with  which  he  seems  intoxi 
cated,  abandons  him  to  the  depth  of  the  abyss,  it  is  then  we  see 
him  always  smiling  and  calm,  recalling  his  swarms  of  dreams 
with  a  grace  which  no  suffering  can  change.  But,  in  fact,  these 
school-terms  of  sensualism  and  spiritualism  are  here  out  of  place. 
I  can  now  understand  why  these  two  inspirations  continually 
mingle  in  the  train  of  his  imbroglios.  I  understand  that  the 


SHORT'S  PHILOSOPHY.  299 

depth  of  his  poesy  is,  properly,  neither  an  ideal  enthusiasm  nor 
the  intoxication  of  material  beauty,  but  humour — that  sort  of 
literary  mysticism  peculiar  to  the  minds  of  the  North ;  a  capri 
cious  form  of  intelligence  which  hides  grief  under  joy,  and  ten 
derness  under  mockery — a  profound  and  graceful  irony,  which 
ascends,  at  times,  to  the  highest  summits  of  human  thought,  em 
braces  the  universe,  and  plays  equally  with  heaven  and  earth, 
with  the  real  and  the  ideal.  Those  who  have  been  visited  by 
this  muse  have  been  borne  by  her  away  to  regions  where  trouble 
and  care  are  unknown ;  for  to  them  all  things  on  this  earth  be 
low  appear  transformed  by  the  bold  gayety  of  the  dreamer.  Such 
was  Plenry  Heine,  as  we  saw  him  twenty-five  years  ago,  when, 
young  and  daring,  he  wrote  the  satanic  passages  of  the  Reise- 
lilder;  or  Images  of  Travel;  and  such  do  we  find  him  to-day, 
triumphing  by  poetry  over  grief,  and  dictating  the  glittering, 
sparkling  strophes  of  his  latest  work.  Charming  and  powerful 
unity  of  life,  in  the  midst  of  so  many  light  works  and  singular 
contrasts." 


2G 


300  SKETCH-BOOK   OP    ME,    MEISTER   KARL. 


CHAPTER   THE   THIRTY-FOURTH. 

AFTER-DINNER   STORIES. 

"READ  us  something  from  your  portfolio/'  said  Von  Schwartz 
to  the  Courier.  And  he  was  seconded  in  the  request  by  ADRIEN. 

"  And  let  it  be  something  spicy,"  added  young  C . 

The  ladies  had  retired,  and  the  gentlemen  had  settled  down  to 
their  usual  coffee  and  cigars.  The  Meister  made  no  remark ; 
but,  laying  aside  his  meerschaum,  took  up  and  read  the  fol 
lowing  : — 

tfmrtts  to  tortesses ;  0r,  Salts  0f  totrtessts* 

THE   VENGEANCE   OF    LOLA    MONTEZ. 

Frauen  und  Jungfrauen  soil  man  Lobcn, 
Es  sei  wahr  oder  erlogen. 

BE  it  a  falsehood,  or  be  it  all  true, 
Speak  well  of  a  woman,  whatever  you  do. 

FRAUEN  GUNST,  WAR  NIE  UMSUNST — "  The  good  opinion  of 
a  lady  was  never  valueless."  This  saying,  0  reader,  is  worth 
remembering !  It  would  have  been  well  for  the  HERR  VON 
BOOTZ  had  he  not  forgotten  it. 

The  Herr  von  Bootz !— It  may  be,  0  reader,  that  thou  knowest 
not  his  name  !  For  many  there  be,  of  high  and  low  degree, 
whom  I  have  met  walking  to  and  fro  over  this  green  and  beau 
tiful  earth,  who  knew  not  the  Herr  von  Bootz ;  yea,  and  went 
down  to  their  graves  as  only  the  good  go,  under  rosewood  coun 
terpanes,  with  the  date  on  silver  coffin-plates,  who  had  passed 
their  allotted  spans  in  gentle,  childlike  ignorance  of  such  an 
individual.  But  among  the  number  I  cannot  include  many  of 
the  residents  in  the  city  of  Munich,  in  the  year  eighteen  hundred 
and  forty  seven  ;  for  they  were  all,  as  things  went,  pretty  gene 
rally  acquainted  with  him,  and  knew  that  he  corresponded  for 


AFTER-DINNER   STORIES.  301 

the  Ilundsgemeine  Zeitung,  chronicling  in  that  great  German 
journal  much  of  the  social  small-beer,  literary  large  turnips, 
and  political  small-potatoes  of  the  day. 

He  was  short  in  stature,  peaceable  of  disposition,  extremely 
fat,  and  greatly  beloved.  And  I  rejoice  amazingly  when  I  re 
flect  that  he  actually  ate,  drank,  wrote,  waddled  about,  lived, 
moved,  and  had  his  being  in  Munich.  For  had  I  proceeded  to 
accurately  describe  him,  you  would  have  called  me  a  plagiarist 
from  Cervantes,  and  accused  me  of  resurrectionizing  Sancho 
Panza. 

Now  it  came  to  pass,  that  in  those  days  Lola  Montez  arose, 
and  was  sent  unto  Munich,  not  of  her  own  will,  but  to  work  out 
that  of  destiny.  And  when  Yon  Bootz  had  heard  this,  he 
mended  his  pen — though  not  his  manners — and  exclaiming — 

Every  day  cometh  something  new; 
But  seldom  any  thing  good  or  true — 

wrote  down  the  following  item  of  news  for  the  paper,  which  was 
duly  published  and  eventually  paid  for.  [And  his  pen  trembled 
with  delight ;  his  soul  thrilled  with  rapture ;  his  eyes  expanded 
with  joy;  and  his  pulse  went  pit-a-pat  with  pleasure  at  being  the 
first  to  communicate  the  intelligence :] 

"  To-day,  THE  NOTORIOUS  LOLA  MONTEZ  has  arrived  in 
Munich!" 

Unfortunate  Yon  Bootz  !  Better  for  thee  had  it  been  hadst 
thou  never  learned  to  write  !  Better,  far  better,  hadst  thou  never 
become  a  correspondent !  But  best,  far  best,  hadst  thou  remem 
bered  the  Italian  rhyme : 

Parla  poco,  ascolto  assai,  e  nonfallirai  ! 

He  that  hears  much,  nor  reports  it  at  all, 

Shall  be  welcomed  in  parlour,  in  kitchen,  and  hall. 

Morn  rose  and  fell  upon  the  city  of  Munich.  Buds  ripened 
into  flowers,  and  flowers  to  fruit.  Minutes  expanded  into  hours, 
while  hours  elongated  into  days,  and  all  swam  forth  on  the 
checkered  tide  of  Time  into  the  miscellaneous  chaos  of  Eternity. 
"With  the  flood  swam  Lola,  and  a  very  good  swim  she  made  of  it, 
too,  in  the  good  graces  of  King  Ludwig.  She  put  no  faith  in 
that  wicked  verse  of  Ovid's;  that  verse  which,  like  so  many 


302  SKETCH-BOOK   OF   ME,    MEISTER   KARL. 

others,  only  tends  to  give  a  bad  opinion  of  human  nature,  and 
harden  hearts  naturally  gentle  and  confiding — 

Turpe  senex  miles,  turpe  senilia  amor. 

Which  means  that  an  "old  soger"  is  a  hard  case,  and  that  the 
friendly  regards  of  an  old  gentleman  arn't  worth  having. 
"Nay,"  said  she,  (or  might  have  said,)  speaking  in  one  of  her 
numerous  native  languages — 

Mas  vale  viejo  que  me  Tionre 
Que  galan  que  me  assombre. 

It  is  better  to  be  the  privy-counsellor  of  a  good  old  king,  than  be 
loved  by  some  young  fool  who  would  abuse  me  ! 

Now,  among  Herr  von  Bootz's  peculiarities,  the  most  peculiar 
was  that  of  being  ein  guter  Geselhchaftcr,  which  means  good 
company,  and  a  first-rate  diner-out.  For  his  good  nature  was 
incredible,  his  appetite  invincible,  his  thirst  unquenchable,  and  his 
budget  of  odds  and  ends  inexhaustible.  Nor  was  he  without 
talent,  having  written  "Dcr  Vcrscliwundene  Prinz"  or  *The 
Vanished  Prince,"  one  of  the  most  amusing  and  popular  modern 
German  romantic  comedies.  Everybody  knew  Bootz — he  dined 
everywhere;  Count  Seinsheim  patronized  him,  all  the  world  in 
vited  him.  Had  he  lived  one  hundred  years  ago,  he  would  have 
made  a  flourishing  French  abbe. 

0  thou  unfortunate  Bootz !  how  gladly  would  I  turn  aside  the 
fearful  decree  of  Fate  which  I  even  now  perceive  hanging  like  a 
thunderbolt  over  thy  devoted  head !  How  gladly  would  I  annul 
the  past,  and  thus  prevent  the  future  catastrophe,  whither  my  pen 
even  now  tends !  But  it  may  not  be !  Solemnly,  darkly,  deeply, 
sternly,  irrevocably,  like  the  awful  Destiny  of  the  ancient  Greek 
drama,  it  comes  rolling  on,  overwhelming  in  its  majesty,  tremen 
dous  in  its  power, — THE  VENGEANCE  or  LOLA  MONTEZ  ! ! ! 


QUICKLY  and  briskly  Louis  the  Poet-king  rushed  through  the 
streets  of  his  German  Athens.  His  coat,  restrained  only  by  the 
upper  button,  streamed  horizontally  behind  him ;  and  so  rapid 
was  his  pace,  that  had  a  volume  of  his  own  poems  been  placed  on 
those  skirts,  it  would  not  have  fallen  off.  Bob,  bob,  bob  went 
his  head,  right  and  left,  to  the  passing  salutations  of  his  subjects; 


AFTER-DINNER   STORIES.  303 

while  his  great  eyes  glared  like  those  of  Melmoth  the  Wanderer 
on  all  countervening  objects.  Among  these  objects  was  the  Herr 
von  Bootz.  Twisting  around  his  head,  and  with  that  impetuous 
rapidity  which  distinguished  his  regal  style  of  address  from  that 
of  other  mortals,  the  monarch  exclaimed — 

"Good  day,  Herr  von  Bootz;  call  on  Lola;  take  dinner; 
Countess  of  Landsfeldt ;  adieu !" 

And  with  the  last  word,  he  was  already  a  hundred  furlongs 
distant. 

Was  it  a  dream  ?  Could  it  be  true  ?  Was  it  some  subjective 
imagining,  developed  from  the  transcendental  depths  of  his  Ger 
man  " moral  consciousness?'7  Was  he  verliext,  or  bewitched? 
Was  he  Der  Verwunschene  Bootz,  and,  like  his  own  princely  hero, 
enchanted?  Lola!  soup!  wine!  roast  and  boiled!  the  king! 
And  yet  it  must  be  true!  Here  was  the  Ludwig's-strasse,  there 
was  the  Opera-house.  Over  the  way  was  Kaiser's  book-store,  and 
in  the  doorway  he  could  even  perceive  Meister  Karl  looking  on. 
And  far,  far  in  the  distance,  vanishing  as  he  went,  was  the  figure 
of  His  Majesty. 

Infatuated  Bootz !  what  demon  was  it  that  then  whispered  in 
thine  ear — "  Go !  Ein  (jutes  Malil  ist  henTcenswerth, — a  good  din 
ner  is  worth  a  halter."  And  with  Lola,  too!  What  dishes — 
save,  indeed,  chafing-dishes — couldst  thou  expect  of  her  ?  Hadst 
thou  never  heard  the  couplet — 

Grossen  Herren  und  schoenen  Frauen 
Soil  man  wold  dienen,  dock  wcnig  trauen. 

Mighty  lords  and  ladies  fair 
Should  be  obey'd,  but  trusted  ne'er. 

Or  didst  thou  hope,  with  that  smooth  tongue  of  thine,  to  come  it 
over  Lola,  cause  her  to  forget  the  "notorious,"  and  blind  her 
completely  ?  Ah,  Bootz  !  Bootz  ! 

Quien  el  dia,llo  7m  de  engafiar 
De  maftana  se  ha  de  levantar. 

He  who  the  devil  would  fain  deceive, 
Must  rise  right  early,  I  well  believe. 

Yes,  Bootz  went — and  dined.  And  many  days  rolled  over  this 
great  dumpling  which  men  call  the  world,  and  each  said  in  sil- 

26* 


304  SKETCH-BOOK  or  ME,  MEISTER  KARL. 

ver  tones  to  its  successor — "I  have  seen  Bootz  calling  on  the 
countess!"  Every  day  I 

Wcr  etwas  will  gcltcn 
Der  komme  selten. 

"He  who  would  pass  for  something,  should  call  seldom."  Believe 
me  when  I  say  that  hospitality  should  never  be  too  severely 
taxed,  for  'tis  ill  work  to  over-drive  a  willing  horse;  and  "never 
be  a  guest  for  more  than  nine,  or  less  than  three  days."  Alas ! 
the  only  philosophical  reflection  which  occurred  to  Bootz  was, 
that  while  the  pot  boils  friendship  blooms. 

And  now  a  dark,  wild  change  steals  o'er  the  fair  landscape  of 
the  Herr  von  Bootzian  vision.  The  sun  of  .Lola's  favour  still  gilds 
with  flashing  refulgence  the  plate  and  china,  but  there  is  in  its 
radiance  a  touch  of  fire  infernal.  How  transient  is  earthly  hap 
piness,  and  with  what  remarkable  dexterity  does  the  pea  of  pros 
perity  vanish  beneath  the  thimble  of  destiny ! 

Gleuck  und  Glas  ! 
Wie  bald  bricht  das! 

Fortune  and  glass 
Soon  break  and  pass. 

"For  there's  no  trustin'  these  here  princes,"  as  the  London  tailor 
said  when  he  sent  the  bill  with  the  pants  to  Louis  Napoleon. 
Their  love  and  their  good-will,  and  their  "inwites"  out  to  dine, 
are  all  variableness  and  the  shadow  of  turnino- : 

o 

Princes  favour,  April  weather, 
Ladies'  love,  a  floating  feather, 
Luck  at  cards,  or  game  with  dice, 
Ever  alter  in  a  trice.* 

Yet  once  again,  and  Bootz  was  invited  to  sup  with  Marie  Lola 
Montez,  Countess  of  Landsfeldt.  Never  had  he  been  in  better 
appetite ;  never  had  the  dishes  been  so  good,  the  wines  so  deli 
cate,  the  weather  so  agreeable,  or  the  lady  so  fascinating.  And 
Bootz  ate.  Ate  like  a  ploughman,  ate  like  a  dragon,  ate  like  the 
devil.  And  still  Lola,  with  fine-drawn  fascination,  led  him  on, 
provoking  and  titillating  at  every  instant  his  ready  appetite  with 
new  dainties.  At  last 

Changing  her  mien  into  the  vindictive  passion  of  a  veritable 


*  DAS  LALLENBUCH,  chapter  iv. 


AFTER-DINNER    STORIES.  305 

fiend  incarnate,  and  smiling  as  only  a  fiend  or  a  woman  can 
smile  when  an  old  enemy  has  been  well  taken  in,  Lola  glided  up 
to  Herr  von  Bootz,  and  spreading  before  his  astonished  eyes  an  old 
newspaper,  said — 

"Read  that!" 

Bootz,  read — read  the  paragraph  which  our  readers  have  also 
perused,  announcing  the  arrival  in  Bavaria  of  "the  notorious 
Lola  Montez."  Need  we  describe  his  feelings  ?  Need  we  de 
scribe  the  hurried  and  fluent  apologies  which,  with  the  tact  of  an 
old  diner-out,  he  so  readily  poured  forth  ?  With  three  words  Lola 
stopped  them  all,  exclaiming — 

"  You  are  poisoned  !" 

"What!"  gasped  Her  von  Bootz;   "p-p-poisoned!" 

"Yes,"  replied  Lola,  ferociously,  "poisoned  with  every  thing. 
Arsenic ;  hydrocyanic,  crotonic,  and  oxalic  acids ;  belladonna  and 
stramonium ;  laudanum,  sour-krout,  and  lager-bier,  with  all  other 
deadly  articles  known  to  modern  chemistry,  are  at  present  strag 
gling  for  mastery  in  your  wretched  frame.  And  now — ha  !  ha  ! 
ha  !  ho  !  ho  !  ho  ! — I  am  revenged  !  Die,  wretch  !  die!" 

Without  a  word,  the  hapless  Bootz  sank  back  upon  the  sofa. 
Up-girgled  from  his  throat  one  fearful  sound — 

"  Gu,  gu,  goo,  oo,  oo,  guggle,  uggle, — OOH  !"  Bootz  thought 
that  it  was  his  own  death-rattle 

But  it  wasn't ! 

Let  me  draw  a  charitable  veil  over  the  fearful  sight  which  fol 
lowed.  A  dreadful  thunder-storm,  which  arose  at  this  instant, 
lent  a  dire  horror  to  the  scene.  Need  I  describe  the  wrath  and 
imprecations  of  Lola,  the  awful  roar  of  the  thunder,  the  pattering 
of  the  rain,  and  the  dying  groans  of  the  poor  Von  Bootz  ?  For 
the  groans  did  indeed  die,  one  by  one — as  groans  usually  do. 
But  Bootz  lived,  after  enduring  an  immortal  agony  for  about  two 
hours.  For  at  the  expiration  of  that  time,  Lola,  moved  with 
compassion,  graciously  granted  him  a  little  milk  and  some  warm 
water. 

0  reader  !  if  it  was  necessary  to  draw  a  veil  over  the  two  hours' 
agony  of  Bootz,  what  sort  of  double-quilted  drapery  should  we 
now  cast  over  the  emctical  scene  which  followed  ?  Suffice  it  to 
say,  that  Bootz  lived ;  lived  to  rid  his  system  of  that  enormous 
quantity  of  poisons  with  which  he  had  not  been  dosed;  lived  to 
write  new  letters  and  eat  new  dinners ;  lived,  I  trust,  to  learn 


306  SKETCH-BOOK    OF    ME,    METSTER   KARL. 

that,  right  or  wrong,  women  should  only  be  well  spoken  of; 
lived,  in  fine,  to  suggest  by  his  story  the  following  moral,  written 
lang  syne  by  great  Saint  Augustine  : — 

"  Crede  mihi,  si  totum  ccehtm  cssct  papyrus,  ct  tolum  mare 
atramentum,  et  omnes  stellce  pennce,  et  omnes  any  el  i  scribentcs, 
non  possent  describere  astutiam  mulierum."  "Believe  me,  that 
if  all  the  heaven  was  paper,  and  all  the  sea  ink,  all  the  stars  pens, 
and  all  the  angels  scribes,  they  could  not  describe  the  craftiness 
of  women. " 

And  as  it  is  usual,  reader,  to  conclude  tragic  entertainments 
with  a  farce,  let  us  wind  up  this  narration  with  a  merry  pasquin 
ade,  which  was  found  one  morning  attached  to  the  door  of  the 
palace  of  the  King  of  Bavaria : — 

Un  jour  LOLA, 

Bel  oiseau,  s'envola 

Vers  un  pays  cheri  de  LOYOLA. 

Elle  trouva  la 

Un  roi  poete,  et  puis  le  cajola, 
Et  de  caresses  1'accabla. 

Du  roi  la  tete  so  troubla: 

II  affubla  LOLA 
Dans  un  beau  falbala 
Des  titres,  dcs  bijoux — en  veux  tu? — les  voila! 

Le  ministere  s'assembla, 

Et  voulut  chasser  LOLA, 
Mais  c'est  lui  qu'on  exila. 
La  cour  bela : 

Le  bourgeois  beugla; 
On  siffla  LOLA; 

On  persiffla  le  roi,  hola !— Malgre  cela, 
LOLA  est  toujours  la, 

Et  puis,  voila ! 
Vive  le  roi,  LOLA,  et  LOYOLA  ! 


So  much,  0  reader!  for  my  story— so  much  for  the  song. 

In  Munich  first  I  heard  the  tale, 
And  afterward  from  LOLA  MOXTEZ  ; 

I  tell  you  this,  that  you  may  know 
I  got  it  from  the  remmfontcs. 


AFTER-DINNER   STORIES.  307 


PFAFPENTRua  und  Weiberlist 
Geht  iiber  alles,  wie  Ihr  wisst. 

Priestly  cheat  and  woman's  wit, 

Naught  on  earth  may  equal  it. — GERMAN  PROVERB. 

Who  serues  hys  ladye  faithfullie 
Ne  loueth  two,  ne  loueth  three ; 
Ne  leman  coueteth  ywis, 
Save  she  who's  troth's  yplyghted  hys. 

JEHAN  MONIOT,  FOURTEENTH  CENTURY. 

" BETTER,"  said  tlie  poet  to  himself,  "better  a  donkey  whicJi 
will  carry  me,  than  an  Arabian  which  throws  me!"  Now  this 
was  a  proverb  which  he  had  learned  in  Spain.  Saying  this,  he 
left  the  boudoir  of  the  Countess  Clementine,  and  went  to  take 
supper  with  a  black-eyed  maiden  who  was  ndt  of  noble  birth. 

For  the  countess  was  that  evening  in  her  "tantrums."  Every 
pretty  woman  has  a  right  to  be  in  them  occasionally. 

She  has  the  right  by  usage  and  custom,  by  will  and  way,  de 
jure  divino  et  jure  gentium,  by  authority,  prescription,  and  pre 
cedential  confirmativeness.  And  the  countess  was  pretty,  very 
pretty. 

But  alas,  my  ducks !  of  what  use  is  loveliness  when  it  ceases  to 
excite  love  ?  or  of  comeliness,  when  \  lover  is  determined  to  go  ? 
None,  none,  none.  Fair  maiden,  hie  thee  hence;  the  bells  are 
ringing — Nun  ! 

The  green-wood  echo,  the  rainbow  gay, 
And  woman's  beauty,  soon  pass  away. 

Perhaps,  after  all, — who  knows? — feminine  beauty  is  only  a 
nickering  deception — a  gilded,  gleaming  zero — the  aureole  of 
Folly! 

When  maidens  stand  in  dancing  row, 

The  fairest  leads  the  floor  ; 
When  goslings  to  the  mill-pond  go, 

The  first  one  walks  before. 

And  perhaps —  * 

— Now  may  I  become  the  prey  (gloves  and  all)  of  the  biggest 
bug-a-boo  that  ever  prowled  in  Moloch's  nursery,  if  I  work  any 
longer  on  this  infamous  sentence — this  cursed  train  of  nonsense. ! 


308  SKETCH-BOOK   OP    ME,    MEISTER   KARL. 

And  the  author  was  as  good  as  his  word.  Or  somebody  else 
was  as  good  for  him.  For  every  other  leaf  of  the  manuscript  has 
been  torn  out  for  the  purpose  of  forming,  from  the  delicately  and 
daintily-bound  volume,  an  album  or  scrap-book,  on  whose  alter 
nate  pages  have  been  pasted  scraps  of  poetry,  with  other  frag 
ments,  fractionments,  and  figments  of  light  literature.  And  the 
next  page  reads  as  follows,  albeit  somewhat  carelessly  written : — 

OVERTURE-REVERIE. 

(Sounds  from  Home.) 

Music  sweet, 
Passing  fleet — 
Bid  Memory  waken 

Her  loveliest  dream, 
Brave  shouts  on  the  mountain 

Sweet  songs  by  the  stream; 
Yet  no  vision  of  beauty 

In  memory  can  live, 
Unless  woman  in  spirit 

The  impress  doth  give. 

(Swiss  Air.     Jodeln.) 

My  love  is  young,  my  love  is  fair, 
Her  footstep  light  as  summer  air ; 
Such  beauty  well  my  soul  might  move, 
And  yet  'tis  not  for  this  I  love. 

La,  la,  la — li  «  va  ! 

My  love  is  young,  but  passing  wise ; 
She  re#ds  my  first  thoughts  in  mine  eyes : 
When  I  in  hers  will  reader  be, 
Oh,  naught  but  love  I  there  can  see. 

La,  la,  la — li  o  la  ! 

And  this  I  mark  and  this  I  know, 
She  learns  my  deeds  where'er  I  go  ; 
And  this  I  too  can  well  descry, 
That  she  is  sharper  far  than  I! 

La,  la,  la — li  u  va  ! 

Oh,  happy  should  the  lover  be 
Whose  sweetheart  has  more  sense  than  he  ; 
The  soul  of  love  he  ne'er  has  known 
Who  loves  for  beauty's  sake  alone. 

La,  la,  la — la,  U  u  va  ! 

And  on  the  next  page  the  original  narrative   again   appears. 
What  part  or  portion  thereof  is  covered  up   by  the  preceding 


AFTER-DINNER    STORIES.  309 

poetry,  I  know  not.     Paste,  like  Brummel's   starch,  plays  the 
devil — occasionally.     And  thus  the  tale  runs  on  : 

" JEANNE!"  said  the  countess  to  her  maid,  after  she  had 
fretted,  hummed,  laughed,  cried,  and  admired  her  ring,  with  the 
remarkably  small  white  fingers  which  adorned  it — "Jeanne,  in 
which  direction  did  the  gentleman  depart?" 

"Up  the  street,  madaine;  up — for  I  saw  him!" 

"  And  he  saw  thee,  too,  I  dare  say?"  To  this  question  Jeanne 
replied  with  the  French  expression  of  "JParbleu!"  Correctly 
speaking,  she  should  have  said,  "  Edepol!"  or,  " By  Apollo!"  or, 
perhaps,  "By  Pollux!"  since  that  is  the  classic  origin  of  the 
gentle  oath.  But  Jeanne  was  not  invariably  correct  in  all  her 
words — or  actions.  She  had  run  or  been  sent  on  too  many  of  her 
mistress's  love-errands  to  be  over  particular — (Raro  vaga  virgo 
pudica  esf) — and  had,  unfortunately,  never  paid  very  marked  at 
tention  to  that  passage  of  the  holy  father  and  saint,  Ambrose, 
addressed  to  virgins,  in  which  he  assures  them  that  silence  is  a 
synonym  for  modesty  and  decency :  "  Claude  vas  tuum  ne  un- 
guentum  cffluat,  claude  virginitatem  verecundid  loquendi  et  ab- 
stinentia" 

"He  saw  her,"  reflected  the  countess,  "and  as  soon  as  she 
was  kissed  and  out  of  sight,  he  of  course  turned  and  went  down 
in  the  other  direction.  For  such  is  human  nature,  and  thus  do 
men  deceive !" 

These  were  her  thoughts,  and  she  really  believed  that  they 
formed  a  whole,  entire,  deliberate  conclusion.  But  from  the 
deep,  mysterious,  wonderful  abyss  of  her  woman-soul  rose, 
well-nigh  inaudibly,  the  faint,  feathery  ghost  of  a  conscience- 
whisper  : 
.,  For  /  should  have  done  so  myself. 

"And  it  was  for  this"  said  the  Countess  Clementine,  glancing 
around  at  the  room,  and  catching  a  glimpse  of  her  own  beauty  in 
the  mirror;  "it  was  for  this  that  I  had  this  small  apartment  of 
mine  so  daintily  scrubbed  and  comfortably  warmed.  It  was  for 
this,"  continued  she,  seating  herself  at  the  supper-table,  while 
she  inclined  her  beautiful  head  and  swan-like  neck,  sipping, 
meanwhile,  like  a  bird,  a  few  drops  of  red  wine  from  a  silver 
goblet,  "that  I  ordered  my  best  Burgundy.  For  this" 


310  SKETCH-BOOK    OF    ME,    MEISTER    KARL. 

And  lolling  back  luxuriously,  she 
id — 
"Jeanne!  put  a  stick  on  the  fire!" 


And  lolling  back  luxuriously,  she  turned  to  her  maid,  and 
said — 


On  the  next  page,  sequentially,  I  find  — 
LOVE  FOREVER! 

Per  Deos,  valde   iucundum   cst  amare   mulieres,  secundem   illud  carmen 
SAMUELIS  poetse  : 

Disce,  bone  clerice,  virgines  amare 
Quare  sciunt  dulcia  oscula  pnestare 
Juventutem  floridam  tuum  conservare. 

Quia   amor  est  charitas,  et  DEUS  est  charitas  :    orgo,  amor  non  mala  res. 
Soluatis  mibi  illud  argumentum.  EPISTOL.  OBSCURORUM  VIRORUM.* 

Sing,  if  ye  will,  of  the  banquet-hall, 

Troll  the  praises  of  cards  and  wine  ; 
I  have  measured  the  depths  of  such  pleasures  all, 
And  still  found  them  wearisome,  silly,  and  small, 

Unless  some  young  beauty  touch'd  glass  with  mine. 

Drink,  drink,  drink,  till  ye  roll  on  the  floor  ! 

Play,  play,  play,  till  ye've  swept  the  field  ! 
But  five  minutes'  love,  though  quickly  o'er, 
Is  worth,  ye  will  gra~nt,  five  thousand  times  more 

Than  all  that  BACCHUS  or  chance  can  yield. 

Long  live  the  glass,  with  its  morning-beam  ! 

Long  live  good  fellows,  wherever  they're  found  ! 
But  what  were  the  sea,  if  no  sunlight  gleam 
E'er  flash'd  on  .its  darkness,  e'er  waken'd  its  dream, 

Or  guided  the  gay  barks  which  circle  it  round  ! 

But  here  and  there  doth  the  wine-berry  grow; 

Beauty  all  over  the  earth  I  find  ; 
Languishing  eyes,  'rnong  the  high  and  low  — 
More  of  them,  too,  as  older  I  grow  ; 

For  love  never  leaves  a  good  fellow  behind. 


*  "By  the  gods  !  but  it  is  a  pleasant  thing  to  love  woman,  according  to  that 
song  of  the  poet  Samuel  : 

"Learn,  0  jolly  student-friend,  to  love  the  ladies  dearly  ! 
For  then  the  darling  little  souls  will  kiss  you  so  sincerely, 
And  Youth  will  ever  glide  along  right  merrily  and  cheerly. 

"For  love  is  charity,  and  GOD  is  charity;  therefore  is  love  no  evil  thing. 
Settle  me  that  argument."  ULRICH  VON  HUTTEN. 


AFTER-DINNER    STORIES.  311 

The  best  of  hearts  and  the  best  of  lives, 

The  best  of  songs  were  all  born  of  love  ; 
And  the  best  of  good  fellows  are  maids  and  wives; 
And  the  merriest  laugh  is  where  CUPID  thrives, 

In  the  kitchen  below  or  the  hall  above. 

AND  found  that  he  had  indeed  gained  a  loss  by  jumping 

from  the  patrician  frying-pan  into  a  plebeian  fire ;  or  from  aristo 
cratic  fume  into  a  vulgar  flame,  as  the  Komans  termed  it.  For 
actresses  are  but  ashes,  danseuses  but  dust,  grisettes  but  gim- 
cracks,  all  maidens  but  mortals;  and  a  love  of  low  degree  can 
demi-devil  it  like  a  duchess — particularly  with  a  gentleman  to 
whom  the  dew-impearled  eye  of  beauty  is  ever-moving,  be  it  in 
May  Marian,  or  an  empress. 

Upon  which  point  of  the  womanly-weakness  of  these  poor  girls, 
a  reflection  strikes  me.  It  hath  been  usual  to  compare  all  such 
and  similar  to  butterflies,  which  flutter  with  wings  of  crimson- 
golden  sheen  through  the  sunshine  and  over  the  flowers  of  life. 
But  if  so,  they  are  inverted  butterflies.  For  that  beautiful  bird, 
from  a  worm  or  bug,  (as  American  children  term  all  creeping 
insects,)  becomes  the  tenant  of  a  cocoon,  and  eventually  a  flutter 
ing  beauty.  But  the  ornamental  pets  of  whom  I  have  spoken 
generally  retrograde  degradingly  from  a  state  of  quivering  love 
liness  and  youthful  winginess  to  the  condition  of  the  cocoon,  and 
eventually  that  of  the  bug — I  mean,  of  course,  to  a  dull,  unpro 
fitable  middle  age,  and  a  weary,  thoughtless  decrepitude. 

He  received  but  a  dull  greeting,  found  that  a  string  of 

the  love-lute  was  broken,  a  seal  of  the  soul-flask  opened,  and 
drank  a  draught  of  wine  which  made  him  recall,  with  bitter  re 
gret,  the  Burgundy  and  bright  eyes  of  the  countess. 


THE  next  page  being  pasted  over,  and  adorned  with  the  ballad  of 

THE   COUNT    AND   THE   GRISETTE. 

IT  may  not  be — it  may  not  be ; 
Life  is  too  short  to  waste  with  thee ; 
I  claim  no  hand  which  wears  no  glove — 
So  fare  thee  well,  thou  vulgar  love. 

I  own  that  thou  art  very  fair, 
But  bad  thy  taste  and  worse  thine  air ; 
While  every  varied  glance  and  smile 
Hints  at  an  education  vile. 
27 


312  SKETCH-BOOK   OF   ME;    MEISTER   KARL. 

In  vain  I  seek,  from  day  to  day, 
A  trace  of  something  diatinyuee: 
Such  trace  in  thee  no  soul  could  find, 
In  form  or  feature,  style  or  mind. 

Why  wilt  thou  e'er  my  soul  distress 

By  thy  con-found-ed  taste  in  dress  ? 

A  garnet  robe — an  orange  shoe, 

And  facing  yreen — good  heavens ! — with  blue  ! 

Thy  lips  are  like  an  opening  rose, 
But,  Dieu  !  when  once  the  floweret  blows, 
Oh,  then  thy  voice,  in  dreadful  shout, 
Flies  like  some  vulgar  insect  out. 

I  deem'd  that  love  had  power  to  change, 
And  lift  above  her  low-born  range 
One  who  no  taste  in  perfumes  had, 
Save  for  patchouli  strong  and  bad  ! 

And  now,  thou  lost  one,  fare  thee  well! 
At  nobler  shrines  my  love  111  tell ; 
Lost,  lost  forever — must  it  be  ? 
Lost  to  good  style,  good  taste,  and — me  ! 

—  "  THEREFORE,  Jeanne,  let  one  of  our  servants  run  to  tlie  apart 
ments  of  the  Sieur  d'  Adclstein,  and  tell  his  valet  that  his  master's 
patron,  the  bishop,  is  dangerously  ill,  and  desires  to  see  him  imme 
diately.  If  he  be  in  the  town,  that  valet  will  find  him ;  if  he  find 
him,  he  will  first  return  to  his  own  house  ]  if  he  return  to  his  own 
house,  he  must  needs  pass  our  door ;  and  if  he  pass  our  door,  do 
thou  tell  him — any  fib  thou  pleasest  which  will  make  him  mount 
the  stairs !" 

And  the  countess,  having  given  out  her  orders  with  the  pre 
cision  of  a  general,  fell  back,  lounging  voluptuously  on  her 
throne-like  sofa,  drawing  up  the  ermine  around  her  splendid 
snow-white  shoulders,  and  wondering  (as  did  Jeanne  for  three 
seconds  ere  she  left  the  room)  where  on  earth  he  could  find  a 
more  magnificent  bust  whereon  to  pillow  his  good-for-nothing 
head.  Yet  I  never  regarded  her  as  a  vain  woman,  nor  was  she 
practically  half  as  vain  as  her  lover. 

NATURE  had  gifted  her  with  great  amiability,  wonderful 
beauty,  ready  wit,  and  a  certain  modicum  of  energy.  THE  WORLD 
had  increased  these  gifts,  and  to  the  increase  thereof  had  added 
experience.  THE  FLESH  had  granted  her  charity,  and  THE 
DEVIL  a  spice  of  coquetry,  rather  too  much  philosophy,  and  a 


AFTER-DINNER    STORIES.  313 

penchant  for  light  literature — Adelstein,  the  poet,  being  her  last 
essay  in  the  latter  article. 

"  For  there  is  many  a  good  thing  in  the  literary  way/'  said 
she,  "which  never  went  to  press.  Great  are  the  sins  of  omission : 
let  us  patronize  Genius  I"  

AFTER  which  expression  comes  a  poem,  entitled 
WOMAN'S  WILL. 

Cox  la  muger  y  el  dinero 
No  te  buries,  companero  ! 
Companion  mine,  ridicule  not  money  or  woman  ! — SPANISH  PROVERB. 

MANY  a  charm  is  round  thee, 

Many  a  spell  hath  bound  thee ! 
Though  awhile  I  give  thee  leave  to  range, 

Soon,  thy  wild  flight  o'er, 

Soon,  no  more  a  rover, 
Back  thou'lt  fly,  and  never  dare  to  change. 

If  tbou  wilt,  go  flutter, 

Here  and  there,  to  utter 
Burning  vows  to  all  with  wanton  will — 

But  thou  canst  not  leave  me ; 

No — nor  once  deceive  me  ; 
And  in  chains  I  hold  thee  captive  still ! 

To  some  love  enchanting 

Every  favour  granting, 
Go  and  sigh — I  bid  thee — 'tis  in  vain  ! 

For  no  woman  clever 

Lost  a  lover  ever, 
When  she  icilled  to  hold  him  in  her  chain. 

She  who's  sure  of  winning 

When  the  game's  beginning, 
Throws  away,  of  course,  a  stake  or  two ; 

But  when  higher  aiming, 

Bent  on  bolder  gaming, 
Back  they  come,  and  then  she  holds  them  true.  / 

The  which  verses  may  be  either  said  or  sung ;  but  if  the  Jatter, 
it  is  respectfully  suggested  by  Meister  Karl  that  it  bejione  to  the 
air  of  La  derniere  Pensee  de  Von  Weber,  vulgarly  known  as  Von 
Weber's  Last  Waltz.  

PANTING,  penitent,  puzzled,  and  appearing  somewhat  pygmean, 
(or  looking  "small/')  the  poet  Franciscus  de  Adelstein  stood  in 
the  presence  of  her  whom  he  had  so  weakly  endeavoured  to  cruelly 
deceive.  He  had  been  summoned  most  opportunely  from  the 


314  SKETCH-BOOK   OF   ME,    MEISTER   KARL. 

dwelling  of  liis  black-eyed  pet — just  at  the  instant  when  he  was 
thoroughly  ennuyee,  and  weary  of  her  airs — and  consequently, 
when  he  had  relapsed  into  a  heartfelt  fit  of  penitent  devotion  to 
the  splendid  countess. 

This  she  knew,  as  any  woman  would  have  known  it,  from  his 
air.  And  certainly,  since  the  countess  had  been  a  woman,  (it 
happened  on  her  eighteenth  birthday,  as  she  said,)  she  had  never 
appeared  so  meltingly  beautiful  as  at  this  moment;  and  this  she 
knew  also,  though  I  cannot  tell  you  myself  how  she  learned  it, 
for  I  do  not  know.  But  it  is  well  for  me  that  such  was  indeed 
the  case,  since  it  enables  me  to  put  my  poet  before  you  in  the 
most  penitent,  beggarly,  love-struck  attitude  possible.  It  was 
not  even  necessary  to  comment  upon  his  reappearance.  The  lady 
felt  this,  and  fixing  upon  him  a  long,  deep,  mysterious  glance, 
exclaimed — 

"  Jeanne,  you  may  leave  the  room !" 

To  do  this,  it  was,  however,  requisite  to  look  from  Adelstein  to 
the  pretty  soubrette.  She  found  it  hardest  to  glance  gravely  at 
the  latter. 

"Sit  down,"  she  exclaimed — "here,  by  me!  Naughty  boy! 
where  has  he  been?  Out  in  all  the  rain,  too!" 

[It  is  with  a  feeling  of  peculiar  pleasure  that  I  announce  to 
the  reader  that  the  poem  which  was  pasted  on  this  page  came  off, 
leaving  the  prose  in  a  tolerably  legible  condition.] 

"Adelstein,"  said  his  lady,  "in  one  word,  where  have  you 
been?" 

"I  have  been,"  replied  he  looking  up  at  the  ceiling,  into  the 
fire,  at  the  countess's  feet,  and  all  around  the  room,  in  search  of 
a  lie — "I  have  been  —  at  —  the  cafe"." 

"If  you  have,"  she  replied,  "you  did  not  remain  there  long. 
Adelstein !"  she  repeated,  placing  her  hand  as  it  were  inadvert 
ently  among  some  articles  of  the  toilette  which  lay  near  on  a  table, 
and  then  affectionately  putting  it  on  his  bosom — "Adelstein,  you 
have  been  making  love — a  great  deal  of  love — to  somebody  else." 

And  waxing  confident  in  her  assertions,  she  added — 

"To  some  woman !" 

Horror-struck  at  the  accusation,  he  started  back  with  an  air  of 
holy  innocence. 


AFTER-DINNER   STORIES.  315 

"To  a  woman/'  she  continued,  "with black  hair.     See  there !" 

Saying  this,  she  pointed  to  a  black  hair-pin  which  stuck  in  the 
lappel  of  his  coat,  and  which  had  evidently  been  transferred  acci 
dentally,  in  a  warm  embrace,  from  some  feminine  head. 

"That!"  he  exclaimed,  "oh!  that  must  have  come  from  your 
own  tresses,  of  course  I" 

"My  hair,"  she  answered,  "is  light — and  my  hair-pins  are  all 
composed  of  silver,  gold,  or  similar  costly  ingredients." 

Adelstein  here  began  to  feel  as  if  the  last  plank  were  giving 
way  beneath  him,  and  already  experienced  in  imagination  a  rush 
as  of  many  cool  spiritual  waters  over  his  devoted  head.  Almost 
dead  with  disappointment  and  shame,  he  cast  himself  back  on  a 
sofa,  exclaiming — 

"  All  is  lost— lost !" 

"Oh,  not  all/'  exclaimed  Clementine;  "you  must  call  once  in 
a  while  on  me — say  once  a  month.  You  poets  are  such  distinguee 
visitors,  that  it  would  never  do  to  lose  you  entirely." 

"Had  she  been  angry,"  thought  he,  "I  would  have  trusted  to 
regain  her  love.  But  this  badinage  is  death." 

And  turning  somewhat  pale  and  heart-sick,  he  exclaimed — 

"Farewell,  Clementine.  GOD  knows  that  I  have  deserved  all 
this  and  more.  But  oh !  I  have  ever  loved  you;  indeed  I  have !" 

And  he  turned  to  depart.  But  at  the  door  he  heard  the  rustle 
of  a  silken  skirt  behind  him — saw  a  small  white  hand  steal  over  his 
shoulder — felt  the  brush  of  perfumed  curls  against  his  cheek 

Adelstein  was  a  gentleman,  and  consequently  did  not  at  this 
instant  affect,  as  most  gentlemen  would  have  done,  an  anger  or 
indifference  he  did  not  feel.  He  knew  that  he  was  horribly 
guilty,  and  had  been  nobly  forgiven.  In  consequence  of  which 
he  fell  on  his  knees  and  kissed  her  hand,  as  she  exclaimed — 

"  Will  he  be  good,  and  not  go  any  more  to  visit  naughty  little 
girls  with  black  hair  ?" 

ON  the  next  (and  last)  page,  reader,  I  find  this  ballad: 

AFAR,  afar 

Shine  moon  and  star: 

How  dim  they  are  ! 

Rise,  love,  and  leave  me — the  dear  night  is  o'er  : 
Haste  through  the  garden — remember  the  door ! 
Cool  blows  the  morning-wind,  flower-life  to  me: 
Adieu  to  the  starlight,  to  love-light,  and  thee  ! 
27* 


316  SKETCH-BOOK   OF   ME,    MEISTER   KARL. 

Away,  away, 

Ere  break  of  day — 

Thou  canst  not  stay  ! 

In  velvet-black  darkness,  in  silence  and  night, 
I  still  saw  thee  gleaming,  ray  snow-love — my  white. 
If  in  midnight,  deep  midnight,  I  still  saw  thee  near, 
Oh,  how  couldst  thou  hide  if  the  daylight  were  here? 

Far  gleams  the  dawn, 

Its  first  robe  drawn — 

Thou  must  be  gone ! 

For  'neath  yon  pale  star  a  rose-beam  I  see  ; 
Light  should  ne'er  shine  upon  kisses  from  thee. 
Cold  is  the  moon,  but  a  moon-love  is  warm  j 
Weaker  a  sun -love,  and  broken  its  charm. 

And  now  thou'rt  flown  ! 

I  count  alone 

The  joys  we've  known. 
Love  is  our  true  life,  and  life  cannot  die ; 
Love  gives  a  new  life,  ere  life  passes  by : 
Ere  thou  didst  love  me,  but  one  life  was  mine : 
Now  I  have  two  lives,  for  that  life  is  thine. 

For  a  description  of  their  marriage  vide  the  fashionable  morn 
ing  papers  of  that  day,  or  the  a-Za-mode-upholstery  novels  of 
this. 

As  for  the  black-eyed  girl  being  disappointed  of  the  poet- 
gentleman  "  who  had  lots  of  money  and  wore  such  lovely  clothes," 
she  married  a  penny-postman  with  whom  she  has  since  led  a  life 
of  checkered  dalliance,  dealing  him  out  "sumtimes  kisses  and 
sumtimes  kix." 

MORAL. 

Birds  of  a  feather  should  flock  together. 


A   WREATH    OP   BALLADS.  317 


CHAPTER  THE  THIRTY-FIFTH. 

A   WREATH   OP   BALLADS. 

SSBjjat  %  |0ttttjj  Dtott  sgto  in 

I  STOOD  on  the  steps  of  the  Astor, 

And  gazed  at  the  living  tide 
Of  vehicles  down  the  middle, 

And  people  up  either  side. 

And  I  saw  a  maid  who  was  "  pumpkins" 
In  a  shawl  of  real  Cashmere, 

Jump  down  from  the  step  of  a  carriage, 
While  her  robe  got  caught  in  the  rear. 

Oh  !  the  robe  was  of  moir£  antique^ 

(A  very  expensive  "rag;") 
But  a  skirt  peep'd  out  below  it, 

And  that  was  a  coffee-bag. 

I  knew  it  had  once  held  coffee, 
Though  now  'twas  another  thing ; 

For  on  it  was  "Fine  old  Java,'' 
Y-mark'd  in  store  black-ing. 

And  I  thought,  as  she  gain'd  the  sidewalk, 
And  the  "muslin"  again  was  furl'd, 

How  much  those  out-skirts  and  -m-skirts 
Were  like  man's  heart  in  the  world; 

How  many  a  Pharisee  humbug 
Plays  a  lifelong  game  of  brag; 

His  words  all  silk  and  velvet, 
And  his  heart  but  a  coffee-bag  ! 

And  I  turn'd  me  in  to  the  Astor, 
For  my  heart  was  beginning  to  sink, 

And  I  told  the  tale  to  my  brother, 
And  it  rung  him  in  for  a  drink. 


318  SKETCH-BOOK   OF   ME,    MEISTER   KARL. 

It  rung  him  in  for  cocktails, 

And  then  to  myself  I  confess' d, 

When  I  thought  how  I  came  by  the  "ardent," 
That  I  was  as  bad  as  the  rest. 


'  St0rfungs. 


A  CLOTHES'  line  in  yonder  garden 

Groes  wandering  among  the  trees, 
And  on  it  two  very  long  stockings 

Are  kicking  the  evening  breeze ; 
And  a  lot  of  fancy  dry  goods, 

Whose  nature  I  cannot  define, 
Are  wildly  and  merrily  flopping 

About  on  that  same  old  line. 

II. 

And  a  very  sly  young  lady 

At  the  parlour  window  sews; 
And  I  rather  conclude,  if  you  tried  it, 

You'd  find  she'd  fit  into  "them"  hose; 
She's  only  a  half-length  picture, 

Foreshorten' d  below  the  breast, 
But  the  dry  goods  which  dance  on  the  tight  rope 

Out  yonder,  just  make  up  the  rest. 

in. 

So  dreamlike,  she  seems  so  gentle, 

You'd  think  her  too  good  for  earth; 
And  I  feel  that  a  holier  spirit 

Is  banishing  vulgar  mirth 
To  its  worldly  home — by  Jingo  ! 

What  a  flourish  that  muslin  throws ! 
And  how  uncommonly  taper 

Those  stockings  go  off  at  the  toes ! 


A   WREATH    OF   BALLADS.  319 

IV. 

0  eyes  !  like  the  sky  when  it's  bluest ! 

0  hair  !  like  the  night  without  star ! 
0  muslin  and  hose !  I  can't  help  it ! 

Ye  still  draw  my  thoughts  over  "  thar  1" 
The  lady  alone  is  substantial, 

The  clothes  but  a  fancy  ideal, 
Yet  somehow  or  other — confound  it ! — 

I've  mix'd  up  the  sham  and  the  real. 

v. 

0  Love  !  you're  the  same  old  sixpence 

With  the  poet,  the  muff,  or  the  brick  • 
You  go  up  with  a  rush  like  a  rocket, 

But  come  down  at  last  like  a  stick. 
And  let  love  thoughts  be  lofty  or  lowly, 

Platonic,  or  "flash,"  I  opine 
That  they  all,  like  yon  dry  goods  and  stockings, 

Belong  to  the  very  same  line! 

I/ENVOY. 

Be  sure  that  no  letter  A  garden 

Was  ever  yet  wanting  in  hose ; 
And  Meister  Karl  thinks  that  a  ballad 

Looks  well  when  it  ends  with  the  CLOSE  ! 


grab. 

A  LITTLE  glove  stirs  up  my  heart  as  tides  stir  up  the  ocean, 
And  snow-white  muslin,  when   it   fits,  wakes  many  a  curious 

notion ; 

All  sorts  of  lady  fixings  thrill  my  spirit  as  they'd  orter, 
But  little  female  gaiter  boots  are  death,  and  nothin'  shorter ! 

And  just  to  put  you  on  your  guard, 

I'll  give  you,  short  and  brief, 
A  small  hotel  experience, 

Which  fill'd  my  heart  with  grief. 


320  SKETCH-BOOK    OF    ME,    MEISTER    KARL. 

Last  summer  at  the  Clarendon, 

I  stopp'd  a  week  or  more, 
And  mark'd  two  "  booties,"  every  morn, 

Before  my  neighbour's  door; 
Two  boots  with  patent-leather  tips — 

Two  boots  which  seem'd  to  say — 
"An  angel  trots  around  in  us" 

They  stole  my  heart  away. 
I  saw  the  servant  take  'em  off, 

With  those  of  common  brutes; 
His  soul  was  all  on  sixpences, 

But  mine  was  in  the  boots. 
And  often  in  my  mighty  dreams 

They  swept  before  my  face, 
A  lady  growing  out  of  them, 

As  flowers  grow  from  a  vase. 
But  ah  !  one  morn  I  saw  a  sight 

"Which  struck  me  like  a  stone, 
Some  other  name  was  on  the  book : 

Those  boots  were  not  alone! 
A  great  tall  pair  of  other  boots 

Were  standing  by  their  side, 
And  off  they  walk'd  that  afternoon, 

And  with  them  walk'd — a  bride  ! 
Enough,  enough — my  song  is  sung, 

Love's  tree  bears  bitter  fruits : 
Beware  of  beauty,  friend  of  mine  ! 

But  oh  ! — beware  of  boots  ! 


in  %  ©ft 

What  is  a  Kisse  ? — praye  tellt  to  mee  ? 

A  daring  daintie  Fantasie : 

A  brace  of  Birdes  whych  chirpe,  "  wee  woulde/' 

And  pypyng  answer,  "  iff  wee  coulde  !" 

Whatt  is  a  Kisse  ? — whan  Evenynge  falles 
In  russett  Foldes  o'er  Heauen's  Walls, 
Itt  is  a  blessed  Prophesye 
That  Love  wyll  live,  tho'  Daye  doth  dye. 


A   WREATH   OF   BALLADS.  321 

Whatt  is  a  Kisse  ? — whan  Mornyng's  leme 
Castes  Verjuice  redd  in  Heauen's  whyte  creame, 
Itt  is  a  pretie  rynging  Knell, 
Whych  cries  to  Love — "  Swete,  fare  yee  wel !" 

What  is  a  Kisse  ? — Alas  !  at  worste 
A  single  Dropp  to  quenche  a  Thirste. 
Tho'  ofte  itt  prooves  in  happie  Houre, 
The  first  swete  Dropp  of  one  longe  Showre. 


SLEEP'ST  thou  or  wak'st  thou,  jolly  shepherd, 

Thy  sheep  are  in  the  corn, 
And  for  one  blast  of  thy  minikin  mouth, 

Thy  flock  -will  take  no  harm. 

SHAKSPEARE. 

CERULEAN  youth,  arise ! 

And  wind  your  bugle-horn, 
Till  like  a  spirit  through  the  skies 

I  hear  its  echoes  borne; 
For  flocks  are  in  the  dewy  mead, 

And  sheep  in  the  golden  corn. 

Ah  !  faineant !  is  it  thus 
Your  fleecy  flock  you  keep  ? 

Embraced  by  Morpheus; 
Lost  in  the  realm  of  sleep, 

By  the  fragrant  hay-cock  high, 
Where  nut-brown  maidens  reap  ! 


322  SKETCH-BOOK   OF   ME,    MEISTER  KARL. 


ng  fcrif  of  larl  Jtlta  Safe. 


Drekum  Bior  ad  bragde 
Ur  piukvidium  hausa. 

We  shall  drink  beer  in  heaven 
From  the  skulls  of  our  enemies. 

KEGNER  LODBROG. 

THE  lightning  grew  pale, 

And  the  thunder  was  dumb 
As  if  the  old  devil 

In  person  had  come, 
When  in  vengeance  and  fury 

The  death-raven  black, 
The  Vikingir  ALVAR, 

Came  sweeping  the  track. 
"  Great  ODIN,  thou  storm-god  ! 

Crack  on  with  our  ship  ! 
We  are  off  on  a  batter, 

Hurrah  !  let  her  rip  !" 
So  the  wild  pirate  shouted 

In  madness  and  scorn, 
While  down  went  the  liquor, 

And  round  went  the  horn. 
So  all  hands,  as  you  see,  kept 
a  good  head  of  steam  on  ! 

By   the  sea,  by  the  mountain, 

On  Noroway's  strand, 
BREN  HILDA,  the  peerless, 

Sat  high  on  the  sand  j 
When,  smack  !  o'er  the  water 

In  time  double  quick, 
Great  ALVAR  came  down, 

Like  a  thousand  of  brick. 
Splash  !  into  the  ocean 

The  Vikingir  sprung, 
And  pick-back  the  princess 

O'er  shoulders  he  flung  : 


A   WREATH   OP   BALLADS.  323 

Like  an  arrow  he  darted 

The  wild  billows  through, 
And  into  the  "Dragon" 
BRENHILDA  he  threw. 
While  all  hands  gave  a 

yell,  and  took  drinks  on  the  strength  of  it. 

"  By  the  gods  of  VALHALLA  I 

I'm  done  for  !"  she  cried  j 
"By  THOR  and  by  thunder! 

You  are!"  he  replied. 
No  more  spake  the  maiden, 

No  more  spake  her  lord, 
But  he  stamp' d  on  the  short  deck 

And  brandish' d  his  sword. 
"There's  a  sail  to  the  leeward ! 

A  sail  in  our  path  ! 
Do  you  hear  !  blood  and  brimstone  ! 

Lok  !  blazes  !  and  wrath  ! 
The  bier-sucker  madness 

Is  boiling  me  through  !" 
Then  he  took  a  "long  drink," 

And  right  into  it  flew, 
While  the  Ravens  all 

round  took  a  horn,  and  went  at  it. 

Oh  !  then  on  the  helmets 

The  death-biters  rang, 
While  ALVAR,  the  Raven, 

Swore,  murder' d,  and  sang  : 
"  The  deck  is  blood-painted — 

A  wound  all  the  bay — 
While  round  rage  the  sea-wolves 

And  fight  for  their  prey. 
BRENHILDA  !  land-maiden ! 

Look  up,  and  you'll  find 
How  the  Raven  can  l  go  it/ 

When  once  he's  inclined; 
See  these  skulls  I  how  I  split  'em  ! 

These  throats  how  I  slice ; 
28 


324  SKETCH-BOOK   OF   ME,    MEISTER   KARL. 

And  all  for  thy  sake,  love  ! 
Thou  pearl  beyond  price  I" 
So  the  fight  being  over, 
they  all  went  and  liquor' d. 

"  The  VALKYRIES  scream 

For  the  souls  of  the  dead, 
While  BALDER,  the  sun-god, 

Shines  down  on  our  head  I" 
So  like  good,  pious  fellows, 

They  knelt  on  the  deck, 
And  thanked  the  great  gods 

That  their  foe  was  a  wreck. 
For  on  points  of  religion 

Great  ALVAR  was  "  strict," 
And  always  "held  prayers" 

When  a  ship  had  been  lick'd. 
On  a  prisoner  they  found, 

By  unanimous  vote, 
They  first  carved  the  eagle, 

And  then  cut  his  throat ; 
Then,  church  being  over, 
adjourned  for  refreshment. 

And  over  the  ocean, 

And  over  the  foam, 
Like  a  shot  from  a  shovel 

The  VIKINGIRS  come. 
Loud  roar'd  the  wild  tempest, 

Loud  roar'd  the  wild  sea, 
But  louder  great  ALVAR 

Sang  forth  in  his  glee — 
"  Grim  spectres  sweep  o'er  us 

In  lightning  or  gloom ; 
I  see  their  eyes  gleaming 

Like  fire  round  a  tomb  : 
The  Runes  of  the  valiant, 

Dead  heroes  obey ; 
Let's  pitch  into  Naples 

And  plunder  and  prey  \" 


A    WREATH   OP   BALLADS.  325 

So  they  gave  him  three  cheers, 
and  then  emptied  a  barrel. 

"  Set  fire  to  the  churches  ! 

Set  fire  to  the  town  ! 
Grab,  murder,  and  plunder, 

Drag  out  and  knock  down ! 
Go  it  strong,  ye  brave  Northmen, 

Crash,  tumble,  and  slash  I" 
Roar'd  the  JARL  as  with  each  hand 

He  held  a  mustache, 
And  glared  on  the  town, 

Like  a  wild  devil  grim  : 
An  AESIR  in  fury, 

A  JOTTJN  in  limb. 
Now  the  blue  shields  are  crimson, 

The  spires  are  in  flame ; 
But  on  pitch  the  Ravens, 

All  grit  and  all  game : 

Only  stopping  to  bolt  % 

down  the  wine  on  the  altar. 

Like  fiends  wing'd  for  murder 

The  arrows  flew  forth, 
While  red  swords  were  ringing 

The  knell  from  the  North, 
And  maces  deep  mashing, 

Laid  saints  in  the  mud ; 
"While  the  black  crow  and  eagle 

Went  wading  in  blood. 
But  where  flames  were  loud  roaring, 

With  death  by  his  side, 
Rose  the  giant  JARL  ALVAR 

In  glory  and  pride. 
"  We  have  thrash' d  them  to  flinders 

And  knock' d  'em  from  time  ! 
BRENHILDA,  thou  white  one, 

Say — isn't  it  prime  ?" 
While  the  Northmen 

all  round  took  a  drink  from  their  helmets. 


326  SKETCH-BOOK   OF   ME,    MEISTER   KARL. 

"  The  men  are  all  murdered, 

The  town  all  aflame  : 
And  we've  bagged  all  the  pewter; 

Let's  slope  whence  we  came  ! 
And  under  a  full  head 

Of  glory  we  go  : 
No  scald  now,  thank  BRAGA  ! 

Can  chalk  us  as  '  slow/ 
To  our  Death  Dragon  hasten  : 

How  stately  and  light 
She  rides  the  bright  Belt 

Of  the  Daughter  of  Night ! 
And  be  glad  !  for  our  voyage 

Full  plainly  hath  shown 
That  the  gods,  when  we're  pious, 

Look  after  their  own." 
So  they  took  one  good 

horn,  and  went  off  in  the  Dragon. 


fpn  10 


THE     GIFTED     ATJTUOR      OF      FIRMILIAN, 


THE    FOLLOWING    POEM   IS    MOST    RESPECTFULLY   DEDICATED 

33s  ffbtisttt  itarl. 

MOLOCH,  all  roasting, 
Terrible-toasting, 
Red-hot,  tremendous, 
Roarer  stupendous  ! 

List  to  our  prayer. 
Scorcher  of  babyhood ! 
Father  of  fire  and  blood  ! 
God  of  the  barbacued, 
Scollop'd,  fried,  broil'd  and  stew'd! 

Look  from  thy  lair! 


A   WREATH   OF   BALLADS.  327 

Glance  from  thy  flames  eternal, 
With  glowing  eye  infernal, 
While  we  thy  rites  prepare ! 

Now  'neath  the  mighty  idol,  fires  are  gleaming, 
While  all  around  the  victim-girls  are  screaming; 
And  hotter  still  the  awful  flames  are  flaring, 
With  drums  loud  rattling,  Syrian  trumpets  blaring. 
List  to  the  rip  and  the  roar  of  the  song ! 
For  thy  priests  are  awake  and  go  screaming  along : 
"Moloch  Baal  Molochim  ! 
Moloch  el  Carnaim  ! 
One  god  and  many  gods  ! 
All  god  and  any  gods  ! 
Greatest  of  all,  by  odds, 
MOLOCH,  the  horned ! 
TITAN,  blood-revelling, 
Terror-bedevilling, 
All-to-hell-levelling, 
Scorners  and  scorned, 
Sober  and  corned !" 

Now,  with  the  holy  poker, 
Forth  comes  the  SACRED  STOKER. 
His  is  the  solemn  task  to  stir  the  coals, 
And  pitch  the  screaming  infants  in  the  holes : 
The  seven  holes  within  thy  brazen  side, 
Where  they,  in  anguish  dire,  are  tortured,  grilled,  and  fried. 
Lo  !  he  advances,  'mid  clattering  lances, 
And  rough-ringing  rattle,  like  devils  in  battle, 
While  bucklers  are  crashing  and  scimetars  flashing, 
And  blood-drunken  priests  at  each  other  go  slashing  • 
Pounding  and  banging  with  censer  and  axe, 
Hitting  each  other  such  horrible  whacks : 
While  the  marble  floor 
Is  gushing  with  gore. 
List  to  the  rout  and  horrible  shout ! 
Moloch  !  Bed  Moloch  ! — our  blood  runs  out ! 
And  the  fire 
Burns  higher, 
28* 


328  SKETCH-BOOK   OF   ME,    MEISTER   KARL. 

While  through  smoke,  and  o'er  scream,  and  crackling  flame, 
A  terrible  voice  is  heard  to  proclaim  : 
"The  fight  is  free  ! — there  is  naught  to  pay; 
Go  in  if  ye  will,  and  win  if  ye  may : 

For  the  honour  of  MOLOCH, 

The  child  of  the  DRAGON  ! 

The  bull-headed  MOLOCH, 

The  sire  of  the  DRAGON  ! 

The  horrible  MOLOCH, 

The  brother  of  DAGON  ! 
Strike  in  and  win,  ye  children  of  sin, 
Though  ye  come  out  with  never  a  rag  on  \" 

List  to  the  furious  prayer 
Of  maddened  votaries,  who  scream  for  gore, 
Or  hoarsely  pant,  "  More  blood  !  great  MOLOCH,  blood  ! 

More  death!  HELL-FATHER  ! — MORE  ! ! 
We  thirst,  we  pant  for  torture  !  give  us  pains 
And  horrid  agonies  !  Oh  !  crush  our  veins  ! 
Melt  down  all  life  in  one  tormenting  flood  ! 

Oh  !  MOLOCH  !  all-destroying ! 

Of  anguish  never  cloying  ! 
Grant  us  ineffable,  tremendous  pain, 
That  we  may  rise  in  holier  life  again  !" 

O'er  the  infernal  storm 
Rises  the  demon  form 
Of  the  great  brazen  idol,  roaring  hot ; 
Dazzling,  intensely  white, 
The  extremest  pitch  of  light ; 
In  which  the  innocent  babes  must  go  to  pot ! 
Lo  !  all  is  ready !     O'er  the  silver  bridge, 
Which  spans  a  thousand  cubits  high  in  air, 
4  Slow  march  the  monstrous  priests, 

Like  giants  along  a  mountain  ridge ; 
Great,  bloody,  stern,  and  bare. 
Dreadful  they  seem 
As  devils  in  a  dream ; 
And  all  the  raving  mob  with  joy  is  wild, 
For  every  clergyman  doth  hold  a  child  ! 


A   WREATH    OF    BALLADS.  329 

They  stand  o'er  the  burning  god ; 

No  farther  can  they  go. 
Now  hold  your  breath, 
For  you'll  witness  death  ! 
There  !  there  !  by  BAALPHEGOR  !     I  told  you  so  ! 

For  the  first,  with  steady  aim, 
Looks  straight  into  the  idol's  scorching  womb ; 
Then,  grasping  by  the  leg  an  infant  boy, 
He  whirls  him  thrice  around  his  head  with  joy, 
And  slings  him  smack  into  the  burning  tomb  ! 

A  heart-felt  grunt  of  joy  ineffable 
Huns  through  the  multitude;  they're  faint  with  bliss; 
And  pious  rapture  thrills  in  every  heart, 
As  loud  they  cry,  "Great  BAAL  !  was  ever  sight  like  this?" 
But  now  they're  thrown  by  scores  : 
The  air  is  full  of  flying  innocence  ! 
Again  ! 
Again  ! ! 
Again ! ! ! 

Until  the  last  priest  sings, 
As  round  and  round  a  babe  he  swings : 
"We've  burnt  up  all  this  lot ! — fetch  out  the  men!" 

And  loud  the  chorus  rings  : 

"  Great  Father  !  mighty  MOLOCH  !   hear  our  prayer. 
Accept  the  victims  which  we  offer  thee ! 
For  we  have  brought,  ready  for  sacrifice, 
Men  of  tremendous  crimes,  of  tastes  depraved, 
With  every  sense  unnatural.     We  have  found, 
After  great  search  in  many  a  distant  clime, 
Men  who  ne'er  gazed  with  joy  on  spouting  blood, 
Nor  loved  to  look  on  torture ;  men  who  shunned 
The  maddening  ecstasies  of  drunkenness  ! 
Yea,  who  have  led  an  impious  sober  life, 
And  never  shared  the  wild  and  thrilling  rites 
Of  ASHTAROTH  or  BENOTH.     Take  them  all ; 
Remove  their  vile  and  sinful  influence, 
And  purify  them  in  thy  cleansing  fire ; 
So  that  at  last  they  may  return  to  earth 
With  holy  natural  tastes  and  sound  desires, 


330  SKETCH-BOOK    OF    ME,    MEISTER    KARL. 

And  a  refined  love  for  blood  and  wine, 
And  every  other  consecrated  joy !" 

Loud  roars  the  infuriate  crowd  in  wild  disgust, 
As  these  vile  victims  feed  the  sacred  flame. 
"  Yes,  burn  'em  up.     Behold  !  the  gods  are  just ! 
Vengeance  is  certain,  though  her  feet  be  lame  !" 
They  fall  in  the  dreadful  fire ; 

One  singe,  and  they're  puffed  away, 
As  gauze-winged  flies  expire 

When  into  furnaces  they  find  their  way; 
And  as  each  soul  whirls  off,  whirls  off  in  blinding  smoke, 
There  rises  from  great  MOLOCH'S  brazen  head, 
"Which  glares  above  the  clouds  in  smouldering  red, 
A  wild,  infernal,  grating,  beastly  bray; 
A  cry  to  night-mare  Nature  in  her  sleep  : 
A  horrid  sound — ten  thousand  octaves  deep ; 
A  growl  which  makes  the  mighty  temple  nod ; 
The  awful  joy-cry  of  a  drunken  god  ! 

The  fire  hath  ceased.     We  wait 

Before  the  golden  gate, 

Reading  the  prayer  of  death  from  earthen  scroll, 
In  arrow-headed  words  which  pierce  the  soul. 

List  to  the  rising  hum  ! 

The  PRIESTESSES  have  come  ! 

Through  curling  smoke  we  see  their  black  eyes  swim, 
While  blood  is  plashing  o'er  each  ivory  limb. 
Beauty  on  beauty  crowds  in  quivering  throng, 
While  from  their  lips  bursts  forth  the  eternal  song : 

"BAAL,  MOLOCH,  ASIITAROTH! 

Father  and  mother  both  ! 

Serpent-child  and  serpent-sire! 

Spirit  of  the  endless  fire  ! 

Soul  of  the  mighty  sun 

Male-female — two  and  one ! 
Star  of  the  morning ! 
All-heavcn-adorning ! 

Queen  of  the  realm  of  night ! 

Lord  of  the  land  of  nijrht ! 


A   WREATH   OF   BALLADS.  331 

High  in  thy  moon-ark  thou  sailest  above 
ASTART£-MYLITTA  in  beauty  and  love ; 
Deep  in  the  earth  is  thy  hell-flaming  bed, 
BAAL-MOLOCH  ! — parent  of  darkness  and  dread  ! 
Nus-AROCH,  NISROCH — the  living  and  dead  !" 

Here  the  priests  gave  a  yell 

At  the  mention  of  hell, 

And  the  voice  of  the  maidens,  in  wavering  swell, 
Rings  out  like  the  chime  of  a  musical  bell ; 
But  it  dies  away  in  a  thrill  of  love, 
Like  the  last  faint  coo  of  AST  ARTY'S  dove; 

For  it  seems  by  the  scent, 

Which  just  up- went, 

Or  went  up  from  the  altars  in  blue  clouds  whirling, 
Above  and  below  in  the  light  draught  curling, 
All  heads  and  all  hearts  and  all  senses  turning, 
That  something  excessively  nice  is  burning 

As  if  the  soft  perfume 

Of  every  flower  in  bloom, 

From  Nineveh  to  Babylon, 

Were  centered  in  the  room. 
While,  faint  and  soft  at  first,  from  note  to  note, 

Delicious  music  winds  its  wanton  way : 
Melting  voluptuous,  it  seems  to  float 
Upon  the  perfumed  clouds,  and 

Shun  the  light  of  day  : 

While  o'er  the  doors  which  light  the  marble  hall 
Transparent  crimson  curtains  softly  fall ; 
How  wondrously  lovely  the  priestesses  seem  ! 

How  their  long  eyes  glance, 

As  they  float  in  the  dance, 
And  their  voices  roll  to  the  core  of  the  soul, 
As  their  white  forms  swim  in  a  wine-colour' d  gleam. 

"We  are  chosen  for  beauty ; 

Love  is  our  duty; 

Death  is  revival,  and  life  is  a  dream. 
Come  !  oh,  come  !  for  we  wait  too  long  : 
AsTARTfi  hath  sent  us  with  eyes  and  with  song, 

To  float  in  her  endless  stream ! 


332  SKETCH-BOOK   OF    ME,    MEISTER   KARL. 

In  the  living  river, 
Whose  waters  quiver 
Around  the  serpent  forever  and  ever ! 
ASTART£-MOLOCH-BAA"L  !  great  mother-sire  ! 
Thou  too  hast  passed  through  darkness  and  the  flood 
Male  in  the  female  ark,  Strength  and  Desire  ! 
Even  thou  wert  conquered  by  the  Typhon  brood ; 
The  giant  hell  of  evil,  pain  and  blood ; 
The  death-night  of  the  waters  !  but  within 
Thy  scattered  limbs  still  glowed  eternal  life. 
And  long  they  tossed  upon  the  waves  of  sin, 
Till  placed  together  in  thine  ark  and  wife, 
Thine  other  self,  within  whose  closed  horns 
Thou  swam'st  for  forty  days,  and  in  that  time 
Gav'st  birth  to  the  Triad,  who  in  double  forms 
Made  with  their  mother-sire  the  Ogdoad  sublime, 
The  great  Cabiri  of  earth's  dawning  prime." 
Such  was  the  awful  song  of  life  and  death  ! 

How  THAMMUZ-ORPHEUS-ADON  passed  away, 
And  came  again  to  freshened  love  and  breath  j 

And  how  revival  followeth  dark  decay. 
But — to  tell  the  truth  and  the  facts  to  admit — 
This  perversification 

Of  revelation 

Didn't  prove,  on  the  whole,  to  be  much  of  a  hit ; 
For,  except  by  the  priests  and  some  others  exempt, 
It  was  treated  with  very  oblivious  contempt : 
For  the  multitude  all, 
The  great  and  the  small, 
Were  yelling  in  one  rip-roarious  throng, 
And  going  it  very  excessively  strong. 
'Tis  true  that  the  priestesses  stopped  the  slaughter, 
But  'twas  done  in  a  way, 
I'm  compelled  to  say, 
Like  soothing  a  burn  with  scalding  water ; 
For  they  served  spiced  wine  out,  hot  from  the  vat, 
In  lona  goblets,  and  plenty  at  that ; 
And  with  burning  words  and  glances  tender, 
Exciting  to  drink, 


A   WREATH  OF   BALLADS.  333 

With  many  a  wink, 

As  you  well  may  think, 

Soon  steamed  them  all  up  to  a  high-pressure  bender ; 
For  the  curtains  fell,  and  a  horrible  yell, 

And  a  dreadful  rout, 

As  the  lights  went  out, 

Went  up  from  the  mass  in  a  roof-splitting  swell. 
"Typhon  hath  got  us  !— 'tis  dark  !  'tis  dark  ! 
The  flood  rages  round  ! — we're  at  sea  in  the  ark  ! 
SUCCOTH-AL-BENOTH  ! — I'm  fixed  at  last ! 
BAAL-BERITH-ASMA  ! — we're  perishing  fast ! 
The  waves — the  waters  rise  over  our  head  ! 
MOL — BA — BEL — MOLOCH  ! — we're  dying ! — we're  dead !" 

Throw  wide  the  ocean-gate, 
Where  DAGON  sits  in  state  ! 
Cast  off  the  curtains  :  let  the  young  day  in  ! 
The  first  red  flush  of  morn, 
The  cool  breeze  newly  born  ! 
Lo  !  in  the  east  dim  sinks  the  queenly  star ! 
Lo !  o'er  the  horizon  pales  the  crescent  moon  ! 
To  all,  as  once  to  BAAL,  be  new  life  given ; 
Enjoy  your  life,  for  death  must  follow  soon  ! 
But  first  let  each  one  take, 
Ere  ye  these  walls  forsake, 
The  mystic  honey-cake ; 
The  type  of  birth — the  all-reviving  food ; 
For  honey  is  the  life  of  flowers ; 
The  soul  of  Nature's  loveliest  powers, 
MEL-DEA,  MELITTA,  MELICARTA  ! 
Mel! — holy  syllable  and  beauty's  blood  ! 

MEL,  MEL  ! — reviving  MEL  ! 
Sweetest  of  tastes  ! — born  of  the  sweetest  smell ! 
Farewell ! — the  dying  swell 
Peals  like  a  distant  bell ! 
MEL-DEA,  MELA-MEL! 
Farewell !  'tis  well ! 
Gro  forth  !     In  peace  ! 
FAREWELL  ! 


334  SKETCH-BOOK    OP    ME,    MEISTER    KARL. 


CHAPTER  THE  THIRTY-SIXTH. 

IN   WHICH    MEISTER  KARL   THE    COURIER   BIDS    HIS   FRIENDS    A 
HEARTFELT   AND    AFFECTIONATE   FAREWELL. 

Jfrarit 

\ 

READER,  you  good  soul ! — I  greatly  fear  that  the  time  has 
come,  or  is  quickly  coming,  "  when  you  and  I  must  part !" 
Every  thing  in  this  world  has  an  end.  Greatly  does  it  grieve 
me  to  part  with  you,  for  a  respectable,  moral,  decent,  well- 
behaved  reader  is  a  treasure  not  to  be  picked  up  in  every  tea- 
party,  and  yet  I  am  not  sorry  to  find  myself  so  near  the  end  of 
my  volume. 

Have  we  become  friends  ?  have  I  pleased  you  ?  It  is  too  late 
now  to  back  out,  or  to  hedge  criticism.  Already  the  weight  of 
the  pages  has  shifted  from  the  right  hand  to  the  left,  and  the 
increasing  twilight  of  their  numbers  indicates  that  the  empty 
night  of  the  fly-leaves  is  close  at  hand. 

The  day  is  done,  and  darkness 

From  the  wing  of  night  is  loosed, 
As  a  feather  is  wafted  downward 

From  a  chicken  going  to  roost.* 

Jacta  est  alea,  "  all  is  over  now."  But  how  does  our  account 
stand  ?  On  which  side  is  the  swindle  ?  An  vixit  is  unquam 
qui  placuit  omnibus — "  But  did  that  man  e'er  live  who  suited 
all?" 

gtekr,  fag,  t»o  if!  ber  Sftann 
S)er  Sebermann  gefallen  fan  ? 
9itemanbt  tfl  cr  genant, 
Sfufquam  ifi  fcin  2}aterlanb. 

Anglice : 

Where  bides  upon  this  earthy  ball 
A  person  who  can  please  us  all? 
Nemo  's  his  name,  ye  understand, 
And  Nusquam  is  his  Fatherland. 

*  Phoebe  Carey. 


FINALE.  335 

Now,  as  Meister  Karl's  name  is  not  Nemo  or  Nobody,  and  as  he 
does  not  live  in  Nusquam  or  Nowhere,  it  follows  that  he  has  not 
pleased  many.  For  Carmagnoles  have  long  been  out  of  fashion, 
and  it  is  doubtful  whether  the  Bigarrures  of  the  Seigneur  des 
Accords  have  at  the  present  day  as  many  readers  as  chapters. 
But  these  reflections  will  trouble  him  but  little  if  he  can  only, 
"  in  the  language  of  the  last  century,  '  be  permitted  to  hope' " 
that  he  has  now  and  then  struck  a  chord  which  has  been  echoed 
in  the  soul  of  some  genial  true-hearted  franc  compagnon,  or 
illumined  with  a  smile  the  windows  of  some  fair  lady's  face. 

Alas !  it  is  the  weakness  of  all  knights  of  the  quill  (condottieri 
like  Meister  Karl  included)  to  take  it  for  granted  that  their 
scribblings  and  scissorings  will  make  as  much  noise  in  the  world 
as  a  New  York  saltpetre  explosion,  even  before  they  have  settled 
to  a  certainty  the  question  whether  saltpetre  will  explode  or  not ! 
And  when  we  reflect  that  even  Plato,  despite  the  excellent  trans 
lations  of  Messrs.  Cousin,  Schleiermacher,  and  Taylor,  never  has 
more  than  ten  readers  at  a  time  in  the  world,  (according  to 
Emerson,)  we  might  well  despair,  were  it  not  for  the  consoling 
reflection  that  froth  will  sometimes  rise  to  the  surface.  Hen 
coops  are  saved  when  argosies  go  down. 

My ! — but  this  is  a  hard  world  to  get  along  in  ! 

Multis  annis  jam  peractis 
Nulla  fides  est  in  pactis, 
Mel  in  ore,  verba  lactis, 
Fel  in  corde,  fraus  in  factis. 

For  many  years,  my  friend,  the  fact  is 
That  honesty  is  out  of  practice, 
And  honey'd  words  and  fawning  smile 
Are  ever  mixed  with  fraud  and  guile. 

Nay,  we  must  all  meet  with  hard  knocks,  and  be  treated  some 
times  right  knavishly;  but  cheer  up,  my  honest  friend.  Your 
case  must  be  a  hard  one  indeed  if  you  can  find  no  flattering 
unction  in  the  reflection  that — 

It  all  will  be  nothing  a  hundred  years  hence. 

And  in  those  days  when  we  have  washed  the  garments  of 
earthly  grievances  in  the  waters  of  Lethe,  let  us  trust  that  all, 
both  reviewers  and  reviewed,  may  meet  in  amity,  pledging  each 

29 


336  SKETCH-BOOK   OF   ME,    MEISTER   KARL. 

other  in  goblets  of  pure  nectar,  and  resting  as  fraternally  side  by 
side  as  their  polemics  rest  in  some  old  library. 

Fare  thee  well,  reader,  fare  thee  well.  We  at  least  are  friends, 
let  the  world  wag  as  it  may.  Even  now  my  trunk  is  packed, 
and  the  landlord  is  studying  up  his  last  "  extra."  Fa-a-a-r-e- 
we-e-e-11 !  The  pretty  chambermaid  is  weeping  bitterly  on  the 
staircase,  and  Boots  lingers  in  avaricious  expectancy  at  the  front 
door. — 0  Robin,  rew  on  me,  but  now  farewell ! 

I've  shot  my  bolt,  and  said  my  say, 

I've  packed  my  trunk,  and  paid  the  bill, 
But  one  more  word,  and  then  away, — 
Here  comes  the  wagon  down  the  hill. 
Farewell,  farewell,  companion  mine, 

And  ladies  kind  and  true; 
Maria,  Kate,  and  Adeline, 
Blue-eyed  and  black-haired  Caroline, 
A  long  farewell  to  you  ! 

I  (jame  a  stranger  to  your  gate, 

A  stranger  to  my  landlord's  door ; 
No  loving  friend  on  me  to  wait, 
And  now  I  leave  perhaps  a  score. 

God  bless  the  day  that  I  came  here; 

God  bless  your  eyes — black,  brown,  or  blue : 
Maria,  Kate,  and  Adeline, 
Bella  bellissima  Caroline, 
A  long  farewell  to  you  ! 

If  all  the  world  were  like  your  town, 

And  every  man  had  friends  like  mine  ; 
'Twould  be  a  heaven  turned  upside  down 
With  music,  laughter,  love,  and  wine. 
All  that  I've  made  I've  spent  again, 
As  I,  good  faith,  again  would  do : 
Maria,  Kate,  and  Adeline, 
Bella  bellissima  Caroline, 
A  long  farewell  to  you! 

And  if  I  pass  this  way  again, 

I'll  stop  a  month,  should  matters  thrive; 
If  not,  I'll  give  my  horse  the  rein, 
And  one  hurrah ! — as  past  I  drive. 

Perhaps  some  friend  may  cntch  the  voice, 

Perhaps  some  girl  may  know  the  cry : 
Maria,  Kate,  and  Adeline, 
Bella  bellissima  Caroline, 
Ye  morning  calls,  and  friends,  and  wine; 
To  one  and  all — good-bye  ! 


FINALE.  ^       337 

"A  doo,  a  do!"  as  the  ghost  of  Lord  Byron  cried  to  the 
Rochester  rapper.  But  a  few  minutes  more,  and  Meister  Karl, 
your  true  old  hearty  Courier,  will  have  faded  far  away  in  the 
distant  azure  horizon. 

As  fades  the  coffee  dark  and  brown 

In  milk  of  chalky  blue, 
So  he'll  go  fading  out  of  town, 

While  shouting  oft,  "  Adieu  !" 

And  yet  a  few  last  words.  Reader,  have  I  performed  the  pro 
mises  so  profusely  proffered  in  my  introduction  ?  Alas  !  I  have 
left  undone  much  that  I  ought  to  have  done,  though,  en  revanche, 
I  have  done  still  more  that  I  never  intended  to  do.  So  rest  con 
tent.  Perfect  writers  are  as  rare  as  perfect  readers ;  and  if  Na 
ture  ever  made  a  specimen  of  either,  depend  upon  it  that  she 
made  but  one  impression,  and  then  broke  the  mould  ! 

And  here,  methinks,  you  cry,  "  A  plagiarism — a  most  manifest 
and  shallow  plagiarism!"  True;  and  yet  I  stole  it  not  from 
Byron  or  from  Ariosto,*  but  from  the  story  of  the  She  Bear  in 
the  Pentamerone  of  Giambattista  Basile,  where  a  bereaved  hus 
band  cries  "  Where  shall  I  find  a  woman  equal  in  beauty  to  my 
wife?  Nature  made  Nardella,  and  then  broke  the  mould  I" 

Yes,  there  is  much  that  I  could  have  done.  I  could  have  told 
you  how  Wolf  Short  fraternized  with  the  Hospodar  of  Moldavia, 
and  took  tea  with  Key-ing  in  Canton ;  how  he  smuggled  Bibles 
into  Bohemia,  and  "made  a  pile"  at  playing  poker  and  monte  in 
California ;  how  Yon  Schwartz  fought  in  Hungary  and  Cir- 
cassia,  and  with  the  Turks  and  Tartars,  and  how  he  at  length 
became  a  perfect  amateur  Dugald  Dalgetty;  how  the  Chevalier 
married  Coralie,  and  what  Louis  Napoleon  said  of  the  match; 

how  young  C sowed  all  his  wild-oats,  and,  returning  to  New 

York,  built  unto  himself  a  big  broker  business  in  Wall  street  and 
a  mansion  in  Fifth  avenue;  and  how  Uncle  Bill  continues  to 
visit  him  every  Sunday  evening,  and  how  the  latter  seems  to  be 

in  a  fair  way  to  marry  Mrs.  C .  And  there  are  many  mirific 

tales  yet  unwritten  of  Aclrien  the  Artist,  and  the  Count  and 
Countess,  all  of  which  may  yet  see  light,  should  Meister  Karl 
ever  chance  this  way  again.  And  there  is  much  more,  in  no 

*  Natura  lofece  e  poi  ruppa  la  atampa. 


338  SKETCH-BOOK    OF    ME,    MEISTER    KARL. 

wise  referring  to  each  or  any  of  these,  which  may  yet  be  said  or 
sung,  should  my  indulgent  audience  greet  me  with  an  encore. 

And  blame  not  the  Meister  that  he  is  over-quaint  and  extra 
peculiar  in  his  style,  shooting  (to  use  his  favorite  simile)  at  times 
transcendentally  upward  like  a  rocket,  and  then  falling  descend- 
entally  downward,  like  its  stick,  into  that  rhetoric  which  the 
learned  call  rigmarole.  Extraordinary  subjects  are  to  be  illus 
trated  in  an  extraordinary  manner  :  as  the  Professor  remarked 
when  he  drew  the  angles  and  curves  of  the  soul  upon  a  green 
board  with  yellow  chalk.  It  may  be,  0  reader,  that  you  and  I, 
or  perhaps  both  of  us,  may,  like  the  singed  cat  of  antique  fable, 
be  better  than  we  look.  "A  tattered  cloak/'  saith  Baxter  in  his 
"  Saint's  Rest,"  "  may  cover  a  good  drinker."  And  it  will  be,  I 
doubt  not,  a  consolation  and  a  comfort  to  you  to  reflect  that, 
though  the  previous  chapters  may  not  in  every  particular  have 
exactly  squared  with  your  views,  tastes,  or  interests,  they  have  not 
been,  per  contra,  one  whit  better  adapted  to  the  tastes  of  your 
enemies  or  rivals,  as  the  case  may  be. 

Fare  thee  well,  Regnault  my  reader — fare  thee  well.  If  I 
have  in  aught  offended  thee,  I  am  sorry;  and  if  thou  hast  ever 
thought  hardly  of  me,  I  trust  that  we  may  both  receive  for 
punishment  a  beautiful  girl  and  a  game-bag  full  of  guineas. 

"Detur  pro  poena,  scriptori  pulchra  puolla." 

This  is  my  valediction,  friend  of  mine ! 


THE   END. 


STEREOTYPED   BY   L.   JOHNSON'   &   CO. 
PHILADELPHIA. 


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"The  study  of  Bacon's  Philosophical  Works  in  general,  and  especially  of  the  Novum 
Organum,  cannot  fail  to  be  beneficial  to  all  persons  who  are  entering  on  scientific  pursuits, 
and  to  all  who  are  engaged  in  inquiries  after  truth  of  'whatever  kind.  Their  general  ten 
dency  will  be,  if  we  do  not  greatly  err,  to  inspire  a  habit  of  close  and  patient  thinking — an 
intellectual  independence  which  resists  all  that  is  merely  of  the  nature  of  hypothesis,  while 
it  bows  with  implicit  deference  to  the  authority  of  fact  and  experience.  The  nature  of  the 
different  kinds  of  evidence ;  the  different  subjects  to  which  they  are  properly  applicable;  the 
degree  of  that  sort  of  evidence  that  is  called  moral  which  it  is  reasonable  to  expect  in  any 
given  case ;  the  proper  limits  both  of  doubt  and  of  belief;  the  whole  order  of  circumstances 
of  whatever  kind  that  may  have  any  bearing  on  the  impression  which  evidence  may  make, 
or  may  fail  to  make,  on  the  mind;  these  very  interesting  topics  of  inquiry,  as  well  as  every 
other  subject  relating  to  moral  and  intellectual  philosophy,  are  not  less  properly  and  strictly 
within  the  sphere  of  the  operation  of  the  Baconian  method,  than  the  more  tangible  proper 
ties  of  matter  itself,  and  the  laws  of  the  material  universe  in  general.  The  fpirit  of  the  in 
ductive  philosophy  is  in  perfect  unison  with  man's  intellectual  nature;  it  offers  a  true  cor 
roborative  to  his  faculties  in  his  pursuit  of  truth ;  and  the  more  completely  this  spirit  is 
imbibed,  the  more  shall  we  be  guarded  from  the  extremes  of  credulity  on  the  one  hand 
and  incredulity  on  the  other. 

"We  may  safely  affirm,  that,  by  giving  the  Inductive  Philosophy  to  the  world,  Lord 
Bacon  has  proved  one  of  its  most  signal  benefactors ;  and  has  largely  done  his  part  towards 
promoting  the  final  triumph  of  all  truth,  whether  natural,  or  moral  and  intellectual,  over 
all  error ;  and  towards  bringing  on  that  glorious  crisis,  destined,  we  doubt  not,  one  day  to 
arrive,  when,  according  to  the  allegorical  representation  of  that  great  poet,  who  was  not 
only  the  admirer  of  Bacon,  but  in  some  respects  his  kindred  genius— TRUTH,  though  '  hewn 
like  the  mangled  body  of  Osiris,  into  a  thousand  pieces,  and  scattered  to  the  four  winds, 
shall  be  gathered  limb  to  limb,  and  moulded,  with  every  joint  and  member,  into  an  immortal 
feature  of  loveliness  and  perfection.' " — Lord  Brougham. 

"At  length  appeared  the  philosopher  who  proclaimed  a  new  philosophy,  emancipating 
the  human  mind  by  breaking  the  chains  of  scholastic  antiquity.  He  was  a  singular  being, 
who  is  recognized  without  his  name.  The  style  of  Lord  Bacon  is  stamped  with  the  originality 
of  the  age,  and  is  as  peculiar  to  him  as  was  that  of  Shakspeare  to  the  poet.  He  is  not  only 
the  wittiest  of  writers  in  his  remote  allusions,  but  poetical  in  his  fanciful  conceptions.  His 
style  long  served  for  a  model  to  many  succeeding  writers.  It  required  two  centuries  before 
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illustrations  are  exceedingly  valuable.  The  publishers  display  great  taste  in  the  getting  up 
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"  A  deeply  interesting  volume.  We  shall  rejoice  to  know  that  a  copy  of  this  choice  volume 
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"We  know  of  no  book  for  general  readers  that  covers  the  same  ground.  It  well  deserves 
the  popularity  it  has  attained."' — Journal  (£•  Advocate. 

"  The  writer  has  obviously  brought  to  his  task  large  information  and  an  earnest  spirit ; 
and  he  has  imparted  these  in  such  a  way  to  his  pages  as  to  make  them  both  instructive 
and  attractive." — North  American. 

'•It  is  no  disparagement  to  say  that  the  Story  of  'THE  BOOK'  enhances  its  interest.  Thn 
dealings  of  Providence  in  its  preservation  and  spread,  put  on  it  a  value  even  beyond  what 
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various  translations  of  them  in  ancient  and  modern  languages.  *  *  Altogether  the  book 
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"  This  is  a  new  edition  of  a  work  which  has  all  the  characteristics  of  its  noble  author's 
vigorous  and  original  style."  <(The  statesmen  described  nourished  at  the  era  of  the  Ame 
rican  Revolution,  and  their  lives  are  of  peculiar  interest  to  American  readers." — N.  Y. 
Com.  Adv. 

"His  paper  on  Washington,  whom  he  calls  'the  greatest  man  of  our  own  or  any  nge,' 
cannot  be  read  by  an  American  without  a  thrill  of  pride.  The  publishers  could  not  have 
issued  a  more  useful  and  agreeable  book." — Evening  Bulletin. 

"  Lord  Brougham  ig  no  feeble  portrait  painter.  Ilis  subject  once  chosen,  his  pencil  soon 
traces  upon  the  canvas  the  unmistakable  features  of  the  living  representative.  In  this  group 
he  has  placed  some  of  the  most  remarkable  men  the  world  has  ever  known.  Lord  Chat 
ham,  Thurlow,  Sheridan,  Burke,  Fox,  Pitt,  Wilberforce,  Robespierre,  Fouche,  Nelson,  Na 
poleon,  Washington,  Jefferson.  What  a  galaxy!  These  volumes  will  find  a  place  in  the 
library  of  every  man  who  regards  biography  as  an  'eye  of  history.'  " — Sunday  Mercury. 

"  A  work  which  will  long  hold  a  high  rank  for  its  abundant  historical  information,  and 
its  rich  and  vigorous  style." — N.  Y.  Tribune. 

"  Lord  Brougham  possesses  every  necessary  qualification  for  a  biographer  or  historian. 
The  great  popularity  of  these  sketches,  and  the  elegant  form  in  which  they  now  appear,  is 
proof  conclusive  that  they  are  able,  discriminating  and  impartial." — City  Item. 

"  These  sketches  are  from  the  pen  of  a  master,  known  us  an  accomplished  scholar  and 
writer,  and  also  as  one  of  the  most  eminent  statesmen  of  the  age." — Cliristian  Observer. 

"  Wo  reckon  these  masterly  sketches  among  the  finest  productions  of  their  illustrious 
author."— Puritan  Recorder. 

"The  sterling  value  of  this  work  is  known  to  all  well-educated  readers.  It  is  a  true  and 
manly  work  by  one  of  England's  greatest  statesmen." — N.  Y.  Mirror. 

"  These  sketches  embrace  nearly  ull  of  that  b^nd  of  illustrious  statesmen  who  flourished 
during  the  period  referred  to  in  the  title ;  and  beside  their  intrinsic  value  as  faithful  his 
torical  portraits,  they  possess  particular  attractions  for  American  readers,  because  of  the 
light  they  shed  on  our  revolutionary  history." — North  American. 

"  A  work  of  extraordinary  ability.  It  should  have  a  place  in  every  well  selected  public 
and  private  library." — Inquirer  and  Courier. 

"The  ability  of  the  author  to  execute  the  task  he  has  undertaken  is  amply  shown  in  these 
volumes." — Public  Ledger. 

BUSH'S  MEMOIRS  OF  THE  QUEENS  OF  FRANCE. 

Memoirs  of  the  Queens  of  France.     By  MRS.   FORBES  BUSH.     From  the 
last  London  edition.     In  two  volumes,  12mo.    Cloth,         .         .  $2.00 
"  Full  of  sentiment  and  romance,  rendered  all  the  more  touching  from  the  graceful  dra 
pery  in  which  they  are  adorned." — Saturday  Courier. 

•i 


PARRY  &  MCMILLAN'S  PUBLICATIONS. 


BURNET  ON  PAINTING. 

Practical  Hints  on  Composition  in  Painting.  Illustrated  by  examples  from 
the  Great  Masters  of  the  Italian,  Flemish,  and  Dutch  schools.  By 
JOHN  BURNET.  One  volume,  quarto,  half  morocco,  .  .  $  3.00 

"  It  is  a  -work  that  should  bo  in  the  possession  of  every  artist.    I  can  most  safely  recom 
mend  the  American  cojy  as  being  a  faithful  transcript  of  the  English  edition."— If.  Inman. 


CAREY'S  POLITICAL  ECONOMY. 

Principles  of  Political  Economy.  Part  I.  On  the  Laws  of  the  Production 
and  Distribution  of  Wealth.  Part  II.  On  the  Causes  which  retard 
the  Increase  in  the  Production  of  Wealth  and  Improvement  in  the 
Physical  and  Moral  Condition  of  Man.  Part  III.  On  the  Causes  which 
retard  the  Increase  in  the  Numbers  of  Man.  Part  IV.  On  the  Causes 
which  retard  Improvement  in  the  Political  Condition  of  Man.  By  II. 
C.  CAE.EY,  author  of  "  An  Essay  on  the  Rate  of  Wages."  Three  vols. 
8vo.  Cloth, .  $6.50 

CAREY'S  PAST  AND  PRESENT. 

The  Past,  the  Present,  and  the  Future.  By  H.  C.  CARET,  author  of 
"Political  Economy,"  &c.  One  volume,  ....  $2.00 

"This  valuable  and  learned  work  will  gain  him  a  higher  reputation  than  he  has  yet  had. 
It  is  the  most  clearly  written  and  ablest  argued  work  on  political  economy  that  has  yet 
been  published,  either  in  this  country  or  England." — Holderi's  Magazine. 

"Mr.  Carey  is  a  laborious  investigator,  an  independent  thinker,  and  a  reasoner  of  strong 
common  sense  logic." — Harbinger. 

CAREY  ON  THE  SLAVE  TRADE. 

Slave-Trade,  Domestic  and  Foreign ;  Why  it  Exists,  and  How  it  may  be 
Extinguished.  By  H.  C.  CAREY,  author  of  "  Principles  of  Political 
Economy,"  "  Past,  Present,  and  Future,"  &G.  One  volume,  12mo. 
Cloth $1.25 

"  It  is  hardly  possible  to  exaggerate  the  value  of  Mr.  Carey's  book.  *  *  *  The  mere 
compilation  of  facts  in  relation  to  the  social  condition  of  the  several  communities  of  Chris 
tendom  is  of  vast  utility." — Daily  Times. 

"The  arrangement  of  the  book  is  excellent,  and  the  calm,  logical  manner  in  which  the 
various  topics  are  discussed  is  truly  admirable." — Com.  Adv. 

"  Mr.  Carey  is  a  political  economist ;  all  his  views  spring  from  that  science — cause  and 
effect — with  them  he  deals.  He  does  not  depend  on  rhetoric.  He  never  appeals  to  the 
imagination  or  the  passions.  He  does  not  invoke  generosity.  He  does  not  demand  en 
thusiasm.  He  lays  down  laws.  Euclid  in  form,  or  Spinoza  in  spirit,  is  not  more  calm.  He 
addresses  himself  to  thinkers.  *  *  *  It  should  be  in  the  hands  of  every  statesman,  of 
every  philanthropist,  of  every  well  wisher  to  his  fellow  man  in  bondage.  It  is  an  invaluable 
addition  to  the  literature  of  this  country  and  of  the  world." — JV.  Y.  Tribune. 

"  There  is  vigorous  thought  and  mature  rellcction  in  this  book." — Literary  World. 

CAREY'S   (H.  C.)   ESSAY  ON  THE  CREDIT  SYSTEM  OF 
FRANCE,  ENGLAND,  AND  THE  UNITED  STATES. 

Paper, ,  $1.00 


PARRY  A  M'MILLAN'S  PUBLICATIONS. 


BRASS  AND  IRON  FOUNDER. 

Practical  Brass  and  Iron  Founder's  Guide.  A  Concise  Treatise  on  the 
Art  of  Brass  Founding,  Moulding,  &c.  With  numerous  Practical 
Rules,  Tables,  and  Receipts  for  Gold,  Silver,  Tin  and  Copper  Found 
ing  ;  Plumbers,  Bronze  and  Bell  Founders ;  Jewellers,  &c.  By  JAMES 
LAEKIN.  One  volume, $1.00 

'•  We  are  pleased  to  notice  the  publication  of  this  little  work,  which  is  exceedingly  well 
got  up,  and  reflects,  in  that  respect,  credit  upon  the  publishers.  It  is  a  compendium  of 
various  information  valuable  to  the  class  of  men  for  whose  benefit  it  is  published,  and  being 
written  by  a  practical  man,  who  has  himself  felt  the  want  of  a  similar  work,  and  who  con 
tributes  from  his  own  experience,  will  no  doubt  be  received  with  favour. 

"  The  properties  and  capabilities  of  various  metals,  and  of  their  compounds,  the  propor 
tions  of  each  required  for  different  kinds  of  work,  receipts  for  making  plaster  or  wax  casts, 
lacquering  work,  &c.,  and  various  tables,  of  use  not  ouly  to  the  brass  founder,  but  to  all 
metal  workers,  are  among  the  numerous  items  named  in  the  table  of  contents." — Journa* 
of  Franklin  Institute. 


DAGUERREOTYPING,  (HINTS  ON). 


Practical  Hints  on  the  Daguerreotype,  with  plain  Directions  for  obtaining 
Photographic  Pictures  upon  Albumcnized  Paper  or  Glass;  including  a 
Practical  Treatise  on  Photography,  with  a  Supplement  containing  tho 
Heledchrome  Process,  including  the  latest  improvements  in  Fixing, 
Colouring  and  Engraving  the  Pictures,  with  a  Description  of  the  Ap 
paratus.  By  GUSTAYB  DE  GRAY,  of  Paris.  With  many  illustra 
tions, $1.00 

"This  work  tells  the  whole  story,  and  is  so  full  and  thorough  in  its  details,  that  the  book, 
with  a  few  practical  lessons,  will  abundantly  qualify  any  man  of  chemical  taste  and  quick 
perceptions  for  becoming  a  distinguished  master  of  the  art.'' — American  Courier. 

"  One  of  the  best  of  Parry  &  M'Millan's  excellent  series  of  publications  on  the  useful  arts. 
The  text  is  abundantly  illustrated  by  diagrams  of  the  apparatus  to  be  used  in  taking  Da 
guerreotypes,  and  in  obtaining  photographic  pictures  by  the  calotype,  energratype,  &c. 
*  *  *  Every  Daguerreotypist  will  find  this  manual  an  essential  guide  in  the  practice  of 
his  art."— .ZV.  Y.  Com.  Adv. 

"  All  who  wish  to  become  familiar  with  the  Daguerreotype  process  should  purchase  this 
work." — Sunday  Mercury. 

"  This  work  claimo  the  notice  of  every  operator  in  the  Union.  The  experiments  are 
numerous  and  very  engaging,  and  the  illustrations  are  good." — City  Htm.. 

"The  present  book  will  be  found  a  capital  manual  of  this  very  interesting  subject,  as  it 
refers  not  only  to  all  that  is  known  in  England  and  in  this  country,  but  contains  alno  an 
account  of  the  latest  improvements  which  have  been  adopted  in  France." — Arthur's  Homt 
Journal. 


DUFIEF'S  NATURE  DISPLAYED. 

Nature  Displayed  in  the  mode  of  Teaching  Languages  to  Man ;  being  a 
new  and  infallible  method  of  acquiring  Languages  with  rapidity, 
deduced  from  the  Analysis  of  the  Human  Mind,  and  consequently 
suited  to  every  capacity.  Adapted  to  the  French.  To  which  is  pre 
fixed  a  developement  of  the  plan  of  tuition,  so  powerful  in  its  opera 
tion,  and  so  economical,  that  a  liberal  education  can  be  afforded  to 
the  poorest  of  mankind.  By  N.  G.  DUFIEF.  Twenty-first  edition. 
In  two  volumes, $5.00 


PARRY  &  M'MILLAN'S  PUBLICATIONS. 


DESTROYED  (THE)  CITIES  OF  THE  PLAIN. 

Narrative  of  a  Journey  Round  the  Dead  Sea  and  in  the  Bible  Lands,  in  1850 
and  1851,  including  an  account  of  the  Discovery  of  the  Sites  of  Sodom 
and  Gomorrah.  By  F.  DE  SAULCY,  Member  of  the  French  Institute. 
Edited  by  Count  EDWARD  DE  WARREN.  In  two  volumes.  With  a 
Map, $2.50 

"The  principal  feature  in  the  work  of  M.  de  Saulcy,  is  his  voyage  hy  land  around  the 
shores  of  the  Dead  Sea,  and  his  discovery  and  inspection  of  the  ruins  of  Sodom  and  Gomor 
rah,  the  results  of  which  are  given  to  his  readers  in  most  graphic  terms.  Nearly  every  foot 
of  ground  traversed  by  the  author,  from  the  commencement  of  his  narrative,  which  begins 
at  Jerusalem,  is  a  theme  of  biblical  text,  and  as  a  result  of  his  explorations,  many  passages 
in  the  Holy  Scriptures,  hitherto,  by  many  readers  considered  irreconcilable,  are  made  per 
fectly  plain.  The  scenes  and  sites  treated  of  by  Josephus  from  traditionary  legend,  are 
made  the  subject  of  personal  visitation  by  De  Saulcy.  and  the  theories  of  that  celebrated 
author  are  compared  with  the  realities  before  the  eyes  of  the  writer." — Daily  News. 

"The  author  is  a  learned  and  observant  traveller,  indefatigable  in  researches,  and  not  to 
be  daunted  by  difficulties  apparently  insurmountable.  There  is  a  vast  fuhd  of  information 
in  the  two  volumes."' — Sunday  Mercury. 

"  M.  de  Saulcy  brought  home  with  him  geographical  and  archaeological  documents  of  in 
estimable  value, — he  defines  positively  the  sites  of  Sodom  and  Gomorrah,  and  furnishes 
other  data  of  a  most  impressive  and  gratifying  character.  Altogether  the  work  is  one  of  the 
highest  importance  to  literature." — City  Item. 

"  A  discovery  the  most  striking  within  the  range  of  biblical  antiquity.  The  disinterruent 
of  Nineveh,  as  a  matter  of  feeling,  is  a  small  matter." — London  Guardian. 

'•  Will  achieve  a  popularity  equal  to  Layard's  Nineveh."— London  Morning  Post. 

"  We  venture  to  say,  that  they  who  open  these  volumes,  will  not  quit  their  hold  on  them 
till  they  have  read  them  through,  and  admired  them." — Bizarre. 

"  We  are  not  surprised  to  see  a  new  edition  of  this  work.  It  is  so  deeply  interesting  to 
every  reader  who  takes  delight  in  the  verification  of  biblical  history  that  many  editions  will 
probably  be  called  for.  M.  de  Saulcy,  who  is  a  learned  member  of  the  French  Institute, 
travelled  through  Greece,  Syria  and  Asia  Minor,  in  the  years  1850  and  1851,  with  tho 
honorary  title  of  Charge  d'une  Mission  Scientifique  en  Orient,  which  secured  him  many 
privileges  not  accorded  to  ordinary  travellers." — Com.  Advertiser. 

"  This  well  known  work  has  commended  itself  alike  to  the  favourable  regards  of  the  learned 
and  unlearned.  To  the  former  it  presents  the  close  and  accurate  investigations  of  a  scholar 
and  a  philosopher,  applying  the  tests  of  learning  and  science  to  matters  of  long  disputed 
discussion ;  to  the  latter  it  presents  a  narrative  of  personal  explorations  and  adventures, 
among  scenes  which,  however  remote,  are  intimately  associated  with  the  earliest  recollec 
tions  of  childhood,  and  which  have  been  the  theatre  of  events  belonging  to  all  tune,  and  to 
the  whole  human  family." — North  American. 

"  This  French  traveller  is  also  a  scholar.  He  has  investigated  questions  of  ancient 
geography  in  a  most  thorough  and  patient  manner.  His  chapters  on  the  Dead  Sea  and  the 
eites  of  Sodom  and  Gomorrah  are  worth  the  attention  of  every  intelligent  man." — J!V.  Y. 
Mirror. 

"  There  is  a  great  mass  of  learning  in  this  book  which  will  be  found  very  instructive  to 
biblical  scholars."— N.  0.  Delta. 

"  The  work  is  admirably  written,  and  abounds  in  interesting  research  and  ingenious 
speculation.  M.  de  Saulcy  is  one  of  the  most  erudite  archaeologists  and  closest  observers 
of  the  age."— N.  O.  Bee. 

"  He  was  a  very  rapid  traveller,  yet  no  one  who  preceded  him  has  observed  more  closely 
or  described  more  intelligibly  the  localities  of  this  deeply  interesting  region."—  Cincinnati 
Gazette. 


EOLINE;  OR,  MAGNOLIA  VALE. 

A  Tale,  by  Mrs.  CAROLINE  LEE  HENTZ.     Cloth,  gilt,        .        .        .  $0.75 
Paper,  0.50 

"  We  do  not  think  that  amongst  American  authors,  there  is  one  more  pleasing  or  more 
instructive  than  Mrs.  Hentz.   This  novel  is  equal  to  any  which  she  has  written."—  Cincinnati 

J  "  A  charming  and  delightful  story,  and  will  add  to  the  well-merited  reputation  of  its  fuir 

and  gifted  author.'' — SoiU/iern  Lit.  Gazette. 


TARRY    &    M'MILLAN'S    PUBLICATIONS. 


EVENINGS  WITH  THE  PROPHETS: 

A  Series  of  Memoirs   and   Meditations.     By  Rev.  A.    MORTON  BROWN, 
LL.  D.,  Cheltenham.     1  vol.  crown  8vo.,         ....     $1.00 

"  This  is  a  volume  of  high  merit  both  as  an  elucidation  and  a  defence  of  the  Scriptures. 
It  is  not  addressed  to  the  select  and  lettered  few ;  but  to  the  great  multitude,  who  are 
capable  of  appreciating  the  results  of  learning,  and  are  anxious  to  obtain  clear  and  con 
nected  views  of  the  lives,  characters,  and  writings  of  holy  men  of  God,  who  spake  as  they 
were  moved  by  the  Holy  Ghost.  It  is  emphatically  a  book  for  the  people,  and  as  such  it 
cannot  fail  to  be  attended  with  results  happy,  permanent,  and  extensive.  No  mind  but 
one  replete  with  knowledge,  and  familiar  with  the  entire  range  of  sacred  literature,  could 
have  produced  it;  and  yet  the  whole  is  pervaded  by  a  freshness  and  a  lucid  simplicity  that 
must  invest  it  with  high  interest  to  all  readers.  There  is  nothing  to  be  seen  of  the  dry  ela 
boration  of  criticism,  or  of  the  formality  and  stiffness  of  mere  comment.  Each  chapter  and 
section  flow  on  clear,  comprehensive,  full,  presenting  the  results  rather  than  the  process  of 
criticism  and  learned  investigation.  And  hence,  while  the  volume  will  be  warmly  approved 
by  scholars  and  divines,  who  are  already  acquainted  with  the  questions  discussed,  it  will  be 
especially  welcomed  by  the  great  body  of  the  thoughtful  and  inquiring,  who,  without  minute 
acquaintance  with  the  literature  of  Biblical  investigation  and  prophetic  studies,  are  anxious 
to  arrive  at  satisfactory  views  of  the  Bible  as  a  whole.  To  the  young,  who  are  entering  on 
an  earnest  examination  of  the  Scriptures,  in  order  to  the  attainment  of  clear  conceptions  of 
the  harmony  of  divine  truth;  and  to  those  of  riper  years,  who  are  desirous  of  having  their 
knowledge  amplified  or  confirmed,  it  will  prove  an  invaluable  boon. 

«*#***  'f}lt.  fun  light  of  patient  inquiry  and  ample  knowledge  shines  on  every  topic 
of  importance  connected  with  the  life,  and  labors,  and  times  of  the  long  train  of  prophets 
that  pass  in  review,  so  that  the  reader  finds  himself,  not  merely  looking  on  a  vivid  and  life 
like  picture  of  gifted  and  inspired  men,  but  surrounded  with  the  circumstances  and  scenes 
through  which  they  passed.  The  chapters  resemble  great  historic  paintings;  each  prophet 
stands  as  the  centre,  and  around  him  gather  the  pomp  and  circumstance,  and  grandeur 
and  desolation  of  ancient  monarchies,  the  shadows  of  Israel's  doom,  aud  the  rising  splen 
dors  of  Messiah's  kingdom. 

«  *•;-**  AS  far  as  extensive  knowledge  and  earnestness  of  purpose,  combined  with 
great  ease  and  felicity  in  delineating  characters  and  events,  serve  to  throw  interest  around 
the  grandest  themes  that  can  occupy  the  human  mind,  Dr.  Brown's  labors  have,  we  think, 
been  eminently  successful.  Readers,  who  have  already  accurate  and  comprehensive  views 
of  the  various  subjects  discussed,  will  be  gratified  with  the  clearness  and  force  with  which 
they  are  handled  ;  and  many,  whose  notions  of  the  sacred  volume  have  been  disjointed  and 
fragmentary,  will  rise  from  the  perusal  of  this  book  with  conceptions  of  its  unity  which  will 
excite  their  grateful  and  admiring  wonder,  and  although  not  formally  an  argument  for  the 
divine  authority  of  the  Scriptures,  it  cannot  be  read  without  furnishing  to  all  thinking 
minds  attestations  of  the  divinity  of  the  Bible. 

u  *  *  *  *  xhe  style  in  which  the  volume  is  written  is  easy,  fresh,  and  varied,  not  un- 
frequently  rising  into  great  force  and  beauty.  There  are  many  examples  of  happy  anti 
theses,  and  not  a  few  gem-like  passages  of  aphoristic  wisdom.  Sometimes  there  is  an 
element  of  the  dramatic  running  through  Dr.  Brown's  sketches,  and  occasionally  there  are 
eloquent  outbursts  of  indignant  invective  against  tyranny  and  oppression.  Throughout, 
indeed,  the  variety,  spirit,  and  naturalness  of  the  style  are  snch  that  the  reader  glides 
along  the  pages  with  an  ease  that  prevents  all  disturbance  of  thought,  and  secures  an  im 
mediate  apprehension  of  the  subject. 

"We  warmly  commend  the  book  to  all  classes  of  our  readers,  assured  that  its  perusal 
cannot  fail  to  yield  them  both  pleasure  and  profit." — London  Evnagelicul  Magazine, 


HOWARD  GREY:  A  STORY  FOR  BOYS. 

By  a  young  Lady  of  Philadelphia.    ISmo.,  fine  paper,  pp.  231,  cloth,  $0.50 

"A  well-expressed  book,  pure  in  sentiment,  wise  in  analysis  and  apprehension  of  charac 
ter;  and,  in  a  genuine  sense,  moral  and  religious  in  influence." — Bizarre. 

"  An  interesting  little  work."—  N.  O.  Delta. 

"  Calculated  to  stimulate  boys  to  earnest  exertion." — Watchman  and  Observer. 

"We  seldom  meet  with  a  little  story  so  carefully  and  powerfully  written  as  this  is. 
Howard  Grey  will  be  likely  to  make  a  deep  impression  for  good  upon  the  minds  of  tho 
young  readers  to  whom  it  is  given.  It  will  encourage  them  to  perseverance  in  the  path  of 
duty,  and  patience  under  suffering  and  wrong." — N.  Y.  Com.  Advertiser. 

"  We  hope  that  the  success  of  the  author  of  Howard  Grey  may  be  such  as  to  encourage 
her  to  often  repeat  her  endeavours  to  amuse  and  instruct  her  young  friends,  both  at  home 
and  abroad,  by  the  publication  of  many  more  just  such  stories  for  boys." — lioston  Atlas. 

8 


PARRY  &  M'MILLAN'S  PUBLICATIONS. 


HELEN  AND  ARTHUR;   OR;  Miss  THUSA'S   SPINNING 
WHEEL. 

By  Mrs.  CAROLINE  LEE  HENTZ.     1  vol.  12mo.     Cloth,  gilt,      .         .  $0.75 
Paper, 0.50 

"  A  story  of  domestic  life,  written  in  Mrs.  Hentz's  best  vein.  The  details  of  the  plot  are 
skilfully  elaborated,  and  many  passages  are  deeply  pathetic." — Com.  Adv. 

"The  present  is  a  spirited  tale,  aiid  Miss  Thusa,  with  her  spinning  wheel,  is  quite  a  cha 
racter."' — 2forLh  American. 


HISTORICAL  SKETCHES  OF  THE  STATESMEN  OF  THE  TIMES 
OF  GEORGE  III. 

To  which  are  added  Remarks  on  the  French  Revolution.     By  HENRY  LORD 
BROUGHAM.     The  three  Series  complete  in  2  vols.,  12mo. ,        .  $2.50 


HOWITT'S  VISITS  TO  REMARKABLE  PLACES. 

Visits  to  Remarkable  Places  :  Old  Halls,  Battle  Fields,  and  Scenes  illustra 
tive  of  striking  passages  in  English  History  and  Poetry.  By  WILLIAM 
HOWITT,  author  of  "  Rural  Life  of  England,"  "  Rural  Life  of  Ger 
many,"  "  Book  of  the  Seasons,"  &c.  First  Series.  Third  American 
edition.  Two  volumes.  Cloth, $2.00 

"  The  most  unaffected  writer  since  Goldsmith." 

"  Wherever  genius  has  burned,  or  valor  died,  the  footsteps  of  Ilowitt  turn,  and  gathering 
inspiration  from  the  scenes  which  he  describes,  fixes  upon  the  memory  their  outlines  as  in- 
effaceably  as  though  the  pencil  of  Claude  transferred  them  to  glowing  canvass.  It  is  im 
possible  to  read  these  sketches  of  'earth's  hallowed  ground'  without  an  intense  desire  to  be 
personally  present,  and  drink  in  the  eloquence  of  the  scenes." — Daily  Register. 

"  A  delightful  and  instructive  book." — Sunday  Dispatch. 

"  The  most  delightful  book  William  Howitt  ever  wrote." — Evening  Bulletin. 

"  A  delightful  gossiping  book — about  people  and  places  familiar  to  us.  as  if  we  had  known 
them  all  our  lives,  *  *  reproduced  with  rare  freshness  and  spirit." — North  American. 

"  It  is  a  work  to  pick  up  anywhere  and  at  any  time,  and  always  with  the  certainty  of  being 
deeply  interested." — Home  Gazette. 

'•  Our  author  has  a  remarkable  talent  at  exhuming  the  past,  and  bringing  it  into  the 
most  impressive  light;  insomuch  that  many  of  his  descriptions  make  us  almost  forget  that 
we  are  not  mingling  with  the  men,  and  witnessing  the  events  of  other  ages." — Puritan 
2iecorder. 

"  William  Howitt  is  a  clear-headed,  vigorous  writer,  and  always  has  something  of  interest 
to  communicate  on  any  subject  he  touches,  or  perhaps  we  should  say  that  he  has  the  good 

i'udgment  never  to  touch  any  subject  upon  which  he  has  not  something  to  write  worth 
no  wing." — Com.  Adv. 

"  A  charming  book." — N.  Y.  Mirror. 

"  Welcome  and  delightful  always  are  such  graphic,  genial,  and  graceful  books  as  these."-— 
Raleiqh  Post. 

"  We  cordially  commend  this  delightful  work." — Penn.  Telegraph. 

"  Howitt's  Visits,  illustrating  as  they  do,  so  many  places  of  high  interest  to  the  lovers  of 
medicEval  English  history,  is  a  welcome  addition  to  our  book  shelves,  and  we  rise  from  the 
perusal  of  the  author's  notes  of  the  Field  of  Culloden,  Stratford-on-Avon,  Flodden  Field, 
Bolton  Priory,  Hampton  Court,  Staffa  and  lona,  Edge-Hill,  Jesuit  College  at  Stony  Hurst, 
Winchester,  Kilmorac,  and  their  accessories,  with  an  increased  admiration  for  the  writer? 
pure  style  and  able  powers  of  description.  These  qualities  of  Mr.  Ilowitt  invest  with  a  pe 
culiar  charm  all  his  works,  and  render  them  in  the  highest  degree  popular." — Asmonean. 

"In  this  wide  and  rich  field,  thick  sown  with  noble  memories  of  former  glories,  Mr. 
Howitt  loves  to  expatiate  at  large,  and  to  indulge  in  sentimental  outgushiugs.' — National 
IntdUgencer. 

9 


PARRY  &  M'MILLAN'S  PUBLICATIONS. 


HOWTTT'S  RURAL  LIFE  OF  ENGLAND. 

The  Rural  Life  of  England.  By  WILLIAM  HOWITT,  author  of  "Visits  to 
Remarkable  Places,"  &c.  £c.  From  the  third  London  edition,  cor 
rected  and  revised.  Two  volumes,  12mo.  Cloth,  .  .  .  $2.00 

"  It  must,  as  it  deserves  to  do,  become  very  popular." — London  Literary  Ga.ze.tte, 

"  One  of  the  most  beautiful,  vigorous,  fresh  and  spirited  of  Mr.  llowitt's  productions.  It 
is  writteu  with  good  sense  and  good  feeling/' — Court  Journal. 

"  Not  merely  a  charming,  but  an  ennobling  work." — London  Atlas. 

"  Every  lover  of  nature  who  sincerely  appreciates  the  sweet  compensation  which  flows 
from  its  worship,  will  acquire  in  the  perusal  of  these  delightful  volumes  a  new  relish  for  its 
ennobling  and  satisfying  gratifications,  and  a  keener  enjoyment  of  its  manifold  pleasures." 
—Boston  Transcript. 

"  Few  combine  pleasure  with  information  in  such  admirable  proportions." — Com.  Adv. 

"  There  is  no  more  pleasant  modern  English  book  than  this." — Sunday  Dispatch. 

"Since  Washington  Irving  wrote  of  England,  we  have  had  no  pleasanter  writer  on  the 
same  theme  than  William  llowitt — and  these  plumes  are  among  the  best  from  his  pen." — 
Evening  Bulletin. 

"  There  is  no  false  coloring  an<J  no  overstrain,  but  all  is  truthful  and  impartial,  and  he 
•who  desires  a  correct  picture  of  rural  life  in  England,  may  find  it  in  these  volumes." — Home 
Gazette. 

"  Few  books  combine  pleasure  with  information  in  such  admirable  proportions." — Com. 
Advertiser. 

"  It  is  full  of  graphic,  glowing  description,  is  pervaded  by  a  most  genial  spirit,  and  is  well 
adapted  to  make  people  who  live  in  the  country,  whether  in  England  or  America,  contented 
with  their  lot." — Puritan  liecorder. 

"  This  is  one  of  the  books  of  which,  the  healthy-minded  reader  never  wearies." — North 
American. 

"  No  book  could  be  more  grateful  after  the  surfeit  of  thrilling  adventures  that  the  press 
ias  given  us.  Its  quiet  tone  gives  one  the  same  feeling  that  comes  of  staying  a  week  in  an 
old  farm  house."— JV.  Y.  Times. 


LARKIN'S  (THE)  BRASS  AND  IRON  FOUNDER'S  GUIDE. 

1  vol.  16mo.     Scarlet  cloth, $1.00 

LESLIE'S  (Miss)  HOUSE  BOOK. 

Miss  Leslie's  Lady's  House  Book.  Manual  of  Domestic  Economy,  con 
taining  improved  Directions  for  Washing,  Dress-making,  Millinery, 
Dyeing,  Cleaning,  Quilting,  Table  Linen,  Window-washing,  Wood 
Fires,  Straw  Bonnets,  Silk  Stockings,  Rag  Carpets,  Plated  Ware, 
Porcelain,  House-cleaning,  Laundry,  Wood  and  Coal  Grate  Fires, 
Evening  Parties,  &c.  &c.  Nineteenth  edition,  enlarged.  With  nu 
merous  additional  Receipts  for  removing  Stains  from  Silks,  Woollens, 
Cottons,  &c.  Being  a  Companion  to  "  Miss  Leslie's  Lady's  New  Re 
ceipt  Book,"  and  "  Complete  Cookery."  One  volume,  .  .  $1.06 

"The  work  which  Miss  Leslie  has  here  given  them  might  be  studied  half  a  year,  with 
great  benefit,  even  though  the  lady  never  had  occasion  to  exercise  her  knowledge.  *  *  * 
Miss  Leslie  takes  the  student  by  the  hand  and  leads  her  over  her  home  that  is  to  be,  ex 
plaining  the  use  and  benefit  of  each  apartment,  the  proper  mode  of  caring  for  it,  gives  direc 
tions  for  furniture,  with  curtains  to  match.'' — 8uuth?rn  Lit.  Gaz. 

"This  work  is  decidedly  the  best  work  of  the  kind  that  has  ever  been  published,  and  all 
of  the  receipts  contained  in  it  have  boon  tested  by  continued  experience,  and  found  to  be 
practical  and  useful  in  the  every  day  experience  of  housekeepers." 

"A  competent  knowledge  of  household  ;i(Taii»  is  by  no  means  difficult  to  acquire,  and  ia 
within  the  reach  of  every  woman  of  tolcraoie  capacity,  who  has  a  proper  conviction  of  its 
utility."— Preface. 

10 


PARRY  &  M'MILLAN'S  PUBLICATIONS. 


duces  on  the  stage  the  prominent  actors,  whose  influence  or  example  may  have  had  an  in 
fluence  over  her.  Her  description  of  tho  Court  of  Henry  II.  cannot  fail  to  interest  the 
reader,  for  she  descends  at  times  to  details,  which  possess  all  the  attractions  of  romance,  but 
which  are  strictly  historical.  An  objection  may  be  urged  to  her  copious  notes,  many  of 
which  might  have  been  incorporated  in  the  text,  without  injury,  but  her  desire  probably  tc 
authenticate  every  fact  of  any  importance,  has  been  the  cause  of  this,  and  by  the  critical 
reader  will  be  deemed  as  essential.  No  lengthy  review  of  this  work  is  necessary  to  insure  it 
a  perusal  from  our  readers,  for  no  reader  of  history  can  fail  to  take  a  deep  interest  in  the 
unfortunate  Mary  ;  and  our  friends,  who  are  preparing  volumes  for  winter  evening  perusal, 
will  find  these  every  way  worthy  their  attention." — Button  Evening  Gazette. 

"In  these  days  of  shabby  reprints,  it  is  a  1reat  to  get  hold  of  a  publication  in  the  best  stylo 
of  type  and  paper,  for  which  Messrs.  Parry  &  M-Millan  are  famous.  \Ve  have  not,  for  a  long 
time,  seen  two  such  beautifully  printed  volumes. 

"  Miss  Benger,  who  has  undertaken  this  new  memoir  of  the  hapless  Queen  of  Scots,  is 
known  as  the  capable  writer  of  '  Memoirs  of  Anne  Boleyn,'  and  other  works.  Of  course 
there  cannot  be  a  great  deal  that  is  strictly  new  said  of  the  life  of  one  who  has  been  so  much 
written  and  talked  of  as  Mary  Stuart;  but  Miss  Benger,  while  she  has  obtained  many  new 
particulars,  has  made  the  best  use  of  the  old  materials,  and  thus  given  us  a  most  graceful 
and  interesting  version  of  one  of  the  most  touching  histories  on  record.  Three  original  let 
ters  of  Mary  to  the  Duke  of  Argyle  are  published,  and  an  autograph  copy  of  a  portion  of  a 
letter  is  engraved  far  the  second  volume.  To  the  first  volume  a  well-executed  engraved 
likeness  is  prefixed." — Evening  Bulletin. 

"  This  is  a  handsome  reprint  from  the  second  London  edition.  The  author  is  favourably 
known  from  her  '  Memoirs  of  Anne  Boleyn.'  " — Arthur  s  Home  Gazette. 

MEMOIRS  OF  THE  QUEENS  OF  FRANCE. 

Memoirs   of  the  Queens  of  France.     By  Mrs.  FORBES  BUSH.     From  the 
last  London  edition.     With  Portraits.     2  vols.,  12mo.    Cloth,  .  $2.00 

"  Mrs.  Forbes  Bush  is  a  graceful  writer,  and  in  the  work  before  us  has  selected  the  pro 
minent  features  in  the  livos  of  the  Queens  with  a  great  deal  of  judgment  and  discrimina 
tion.  These  memoirs  will  be  found  not  only  peculiarly  interesting,  but  also  instructive, 
as  throwing  considerable  light  upon  the  manners  and  customs  of  past  ages." — Western 
Continent. 

"  We  have  looked  over  the  lives  of  some  of  the  Queens,  presented  in  these  volumes,  with 
great,  interest.  While  none  are  devoid  of  some  degree  of  attraction,  the  most  of  them  have  a 
charm  about  their  person  or  character  exceeding  anything  we  find  in  the  most  popular 
romances.  They  are  full  of  sentiment  and  romance,  rendered  all  the  more  touching  from 
the  graceful  drapery  in  which  they  are  adorned,  and  by  the  truthfulness  of  which  the  reader 
is  strongly  impressed.  It  is  of  course  doubly  attractive,  in  reading  the  strongly  marked 
characters  of  history,  to  feel  a  conviction  of  the  truth  with  which  even  the  wildest  and  most 
thrilling  incidents  are  invested.  The  lives  of  these  fair  ladies  are  full  of  instruction,  a  merit 
that  mere  romance  seldom  possesses.  The  author,  Mrs.  Forbes  Bush,  commences  with 
Queen  Basine,  in  the  reign  of  Childeric  I.,  or  about  four  hundred  years  after  the  commence 
ment  of  the  Christian  era.  The  volumes  close  with  the  late  Queen  of  the  French,  Mario 
Amelie." — Saturday  Courier. 


MARCUS  WARLAND  ;  OR,  THE  LONG  Moss  SPRING. 

A  Tale  of  the  South.     Sixth  edition.     In  one  volume,  287  pages.     Paper 

covers, $0.50 

Cloth,  gilt, 0.75 

"  Should  follow  in  the  wake  of '  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin.'  "—Penmylvunian. 

"  Every  succeeding  chapter  of  this  new  and  beautiful  nouvellette  of  Mrs.  Hentz  increases 
In  interest  and  pathos.  We  defy  anyone  to  read  aloud  the  chapters  to  a  listening  auditory, 
without  deep  emotion,  or  producing  many  a  pearly  tribute  to  its  truthfulness,  pathos,  and 
power." — American  Courier. 

"  It  is  pleasant  to  meet  now  and  then  with  a  tale  like  this,  which  seems  rather  like  a  nar 
rative  of  real  events  than  a  creature  of  the  imagination." — ^V.  Y.  Com.  Advertiser. 

"The  story  is  absorbingly  interesting,  every  character  being  well  drawn,  and  the  incidents 
exciting.  It  must  command  a  very  large  sale,  as  indeed  do  all  the  works  of  this  accom 
plished  author." — City  Item. 

"The  volume  before  us  is  a  delightful  story,  full  of  incidents,  often  times  bold  and  start 
ling,  and  describes  the  warm  feelings  of  the  Southerner  in  glowing  colors." — Baltimore 
American. 

13 


PARRY  &  MCMILLAN'S  PUBLICATIONS. 


NOVELS  AND  TALES,  by  CAROLINE  LEE  HENTZ. 

New  editions,  iu  tea  volumes,  12mo.    Paper  covers,       .         .         .  $5.00 
Cloth,  gilt, '..".'     T!OO 

LINDA  ;  OR,  THE  YOUNG  PILOT  OF  THE  BELLE  CREOLE. 

A  Tale  of  Southern  Life.  Eighth  edition.  One  vol. ,276  pages.  Taper,  $0.50 
Cloth,  gilt, o.75 

KENA;  OR,  THE  SNOW  BIRD. 

A  Tale  of  Real  Life.    Fifth  edition.    One  vol.,  273  pages.    Paper,     .  $0  50 
Cloth,  gilt, o.75 

MARCUS  WARLAND;  OR,  THE  LONG  Moss  SPRING. 

A  Tale  of  the  South.    Sixth  edition.    One  vol.,  287  pages.    Paper,  .  $0.50 
Cloth,  gilt, 0.75 

EOLINE;  OR,  MAGNOLIA  VALE. 

A  Novel.     One  vol.,  257  pages.     Fifth  edition.     Paper,           .         .  $0.50 
Cloth,  gilt, 0.75 

WILD  JACK;  OR,  THE  STOLEN  CHILD. 

A  Sketch  from  Life.     Together  with  Bell  and  Rose,  &c.     Third  edition. 

One  vol.,  277  pages.     Paper, $0.50 

Cloth,  gilt, 0.75 

HELEN  AND  ARTHUR;   OR,  Miss  THUSA'S   SPINNING 
WHEEL, 

A  Novel.     One  vol.,  280  pages.     Third  edition.     Paper,          .         .  $0.50 
Cloth,  gilt, 0.75 

THE  VICTIM  OF  EXCITEMENT,  THE  PARLOUR  SERPENT, 

And  other  Nouvellettes.  Second  edition.  One  vol.,  272  pages.  Paper,  $0.50 
Cloth,  gilt 0.75 

THE  PLANTER'S  NORTHERN  BRIDE. 

A  Novel.     Two  vols.     Seventh  edition.     500  pages.    Paper,  .         .  $1.00 
Cloth,  gilt, 1.50 

ROBERT  GRAHAM:  A  NOVEL.     A  SEQUEL  TO  LINDA. 

1  vol.  12mo.,  25G  pages,  paper, $0.50 

Cloth,  gilt, 0.75 

"Mrs.  Hentz  has  no  superior  in  her  line  of  composition.  Her  descriptions  of  American 
character  and  scenery,  and  her  success  in  narrative,  are  universally  recognized  as  first 
rate."— ScoWs  Weekly. 

ONDERDONK'S  SERMONS  AND  CHARGES. 

Two  vols.  8vo.     Cloth,  gilt, $5.00 


PARRY    &    M'MILLAN'S    PUBLICATIONS. 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  AMERICA. 

The  Poets  and  Poetry  of  America;  embracing  Selections  from  the  Poetical 
Literature  of  the  United  States,  from  the  time  of  the  Revolution. 
With  a  Preliminary  Essay  on  the  Progress  and  Condition  of  Poetry  in 
this  country — and  Biographical  and  Critical  Notices  of  the  most  emi 
nent  Poets.  By  Rurus  W.  GRIS\VOLD.  New  edition ;  copiously  illus 
trated  with  Portraits,  from  original  designs,  on  steel ;  revised,  enlarged, 
and  brought  down  to  the  present  time.  1  vol.  8vo.  Cloth,  .  §3  00 

Cloth  extra,  gilt  edges, 3.50 

Morocco  backs,  top  edge  gilt, 4.00 

Turkey  morocco,  extra, 5.00 

"  A  -work  entirely  without  a  rival  in  its  department,  and  for  which  there  has  for  years 
existed  a  marked  and  increased  necessity." — National.  Intelligencer. 

"The  best  collection  of  American  poetry  that  has  been  made.'' — N.  Y.  Evening  Post. 

"The  editor,  the  Rev.  R.  W.  Griswold,  has  culled  from  the  wide  field  of  American  poetic 
literature,  many  of  its  rarest  intellectual  gems.  The  volume  extends  to  4C8  pages,  is  beau 
tifully  embellished,  and  cannot  but  prove  an  acceptable  addition  to  every  public  and  private 
library."— Post. 

"  It  embodies  in  its  pages  much  that  is  chaste,  and  fraught  with  the  fire  of  true  genius; 
is,  emphatically,  an.  American  work,  and  is  not  a  little  creditable  to  our  literature." — 
Inquirer. 

"  Mr.  G.  has  done  a  service  to  our  literature,  which  eminently  entitles  him  to  the  regard 
and  favour  of  a  discerning  and  impartial  public." — National  Intelligencer. 

'•  The  whole  volume  is  got  up  in  a  manner  to  do  credit  to  the  American,  poets,  and  to  show 
that  they  are  held  in  estimation." — U.  S.  Gazette. 

"No  belter  selection  from  the  poetry  of  our  native  bards  has  ever  been  made,  and  no 
person  could  do  better  with  the  materials  than  Mr.  Griswold  has  done." — Boston  Traveller. 


PROSE  WRITERS  OF  AMERICA. 

The  Prose  Writers  of  America.  With  a  Survey  of  the  Intellectual  History, 
Condition,  and  Prospects  of  the  Country.  By  Rurus  WILMOT  GRIS 
WOLD.  Illustrated  Avith  Portraits  from  original  artists.  New  edition. 

Complete  in  one  volume,  8vo.     Cloth, $3.00 

Cloth,  extra,  gilt  edges, 3.50 

Morocco  backs,  top  edge  gilt, 4.00 

Turkey  morocco,  extra, 5.00 

"We  deem  this  book  by  all  odds  the  best  of  its  kind  that  has  ever  been  issued." — N.  Y. 
Courier  &  Inquirer. 

"  The  extracts  with  which  it  is  illustrated,  compose  a  mass  of  the  finest  passages  in 
American  literature,  and  are  of  a  character  which  will  secure  for  the  volume  a  place  on  the 
book  table  of  every  man  or  woman  of  literary  taste.  The  portraits,  of  which  there  are  nine, 
are  engraved  in  a  very  beautiful  manner.  'It  is  not  only  an  admirable  survey  of  our 
literature,  but  a  very  interesting  and  important  addition  to  it.' " — Christian  Observer. 

"It  is  a  work  of  great  research,  and  the  task  must  have  required  an  immensity  of  toil  to 
draw  from  the  mass  of  publication  that -which  is  most  likely  to  interest  the  public,  and  to 
afford  a  perfect  view  of  the  peculiar  powers  of  the  writer/' — NeaVs  Gazette. 

"  Mr.  Griswold's  book  has  been  executed  honestly,  ably,  and  well,  and  is  a  valuable  con 
tribution  to  the  literature  of  the  country.'' — Knickerbocker. 

"It  is  a  faithful  view  of  our  best  prose  writers  and  their  productions." — Boston  Atlas. 

"The  book  is  valuable  and  very  interesting;  the  biographies  are  well  written,  and  tho 
criticisms  are  in  the  main  impartial.  It  is  just  the  kind  of  book  which  the  general  reader 
will  like  to  possess,  and  will  afford  pleasant  reading  for  many  a  leisure  half  hour." — N.  Y. 
Com.  Advertiser. 

"Dr.  Griswold  has  performed  his  task  as  well  as  any  man  in  the  country  would  have  done 
it.  He  has  done  American  literature  and  American  readers  a  service  for  which  we  thank 
him  heartily.  The  book  deserves,  and  we  think  will  command  general  attention  and  ap 
proval."—^.  Y.  Tribune. 

"  We  commend  'The  Prose  Writers  of  America'  to  a  wide  national  acceptance;  with  the 
especial  advice  to  tho  reader,  not  to  overlook  the  excellent  introductory  '  Essay  on  the  In 
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POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  AMERICA. 

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PROSE  WRITERS  OF  AMERICA. 

The  Prose  Writers  of  America.  With  a  Survey  of  the  Intellectual  History, 
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"  The  extracts  with  which  it  is  illustrated,  compose  a  mass  of  the  finest  passages  in 
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book  table  of  every  man  or  woman  of  literary  taste.  The  portraits,  of  which  there  are  nine, 
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"  Mr.  Griswold's  book  has  been  executed  honestly,  ably,  and  well,  and  is  a  valuable  con 
tribution  to  the  literature  of  the  country."— Knickerbocker. 

"  It  is  a  faithful  view  of  our  best  prose  writers  and  their  productions.  —Boston  Atlas. 

"The  book  is  valuable  and  very  interesting;  the  biographies  are  well  written,  and  tl 
criticisms  are  in  the  main  impartial.     It  is  just  the  kind  of  book  whteK  the  «n«al  reader 
will  like  to  possess,  and  will  afford  pleasant  reading  for  many  a  leisure  half  hour.  —  N.  r. 

^Dr1  Swold  has  performed  his  task  as  well  as  any  man  in  the  country  would  have  done 
it  He  h:i«  done  American  literature  and  American  readers  a  service  tor  which  we  thank 
him  heartily.  The  book  deserves,  and  we  think  will  command  general  attention  and  ap- 

PI>»VWe  command'' Theieprose  Writers  of  America'  to  a  wide  national  acceptance;  with  the 
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textual  History,  Condition  and  Prospects  of  the  Country,'  which  contains  many  note 
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PAKJIY   &   M-MILLAV3   PUBLICATIONS, 


THE  FEMALE  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 

By  RUFUS  WILMOT  GUIS  WOLD.     Illustrated  with  Portraits  from   original 
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NEL.  With  an  Introductory  Essay,  by  the  Rev.  DANIEL  WILSON,  A.M., 
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paration. 

This  celebrated  Commentary  of  a  great  French  Divine,  is  a  repository  of  original  and 
Striking  practical  reflections  on  the  four  Gospels.  Bishop  Wilson  says  of  it—'-  We  have  no 
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terior  as  to  the  real  life  of  grace—  so  rich,  so  copious,  so  original.  We  have  nothiii"  tint 
extols  the  grace  of  God,  and  abases  and  lowers  man  so  entirely.  We  lessen  not  the  value  of 

have  each  their  particular 

supply  that  thorough  iusi»-ht 

' 


our  various  admirable  comments  on  the  New  Testament;  they  have  each  their  particular 
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supervision  of  th«  Key.  Dr.  BOAJRDMAN,  of  1'hiladelphia,  by  whom  it  has  been  carefully 


THE  MINERAL  AND  THERMAL  SPRINGS  OF  THE  UNITED 
STATES  AND  CANADA. 

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PATENT  LAWS  AND  THE  PATENT  OFFICE. 

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as  the  inventor." — Daily  News. 

PRACTICAL  SERMONS. 

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PETER  SCHLEMIIIL  IN  AMERICA. 

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ROBERT  GRAHAM:  A  NOVEL.     A  SEQUEL  TO  LINDA. 

By  CAROLINE  LEE  HENTZ.     1  vol.  12mo.  25G  pages.     Paper,     .     .    $0.50 
Cloth,  gilt, 0.75 

"  Robert  Graham  is  a  charming  tale." — JV.  O.  See,. 

'•  The  moral  teachings  of  this  work  are  calculated  to  leave  a  lasting  and  desirable  impres 
sion." —  Uncle  Samuel. 

"  The  Tale  is  full  of  incident  and  romantic  adventure,  and  is  well  written." — Boston 
Atlas. 

"The  thousands  who  road  'Linda,  or  the  Young  Pilot  of  the  Belle  Creole,'  will  make 
haste  to  procure  a  copy  of  this  book,  which  is  a  sequel  to  that  history.  Like  all  of  this 
writer's  works,  it  is  natural  and  graphic,  and  very  entertaining." — City  Item. 

"A  charming  novel;  and  in  point  of  plot,  style,  and  all  the  other  characteristics  of  a 
readable  romance,  it  will  compare  favorably  with  almost  any  of  the  many  publications  of 
the  season.'' — Literary  Gazette. 

"  We  canot  admire  too  much,  nor  thank  Mrs.  Hentz  too  sincerely  for  the  high  and  en 
nobling  morality  and  Christian  grace,  which  not  only  pervade  her  entire  writings,  but  which 
shine  forth  with  undimmed  beauty  in  the  new  novel,  Robert  Graham.  *  *  *  It  sustains 
the  character  which  is  very  difficult  to  well  delineate  in  a  work  of  fiction — a  religious  mis 
sionary.  All  who  read  the  work  will  bear  testimony  to  the  entire  success  of  Mrs.  Ilentz." — 
Boston  Transcript. 


KENA;  OR,  THE  SNOW  BIRD. 


A  Tale  of  Real  Life.     By  Mrs.  CAROLINE  LEE  HENTZ.     Fifth  edition.     1 

vol.,  273  pages.     Taper, $0.50 

Cloth,  gilt, 0.75 

"An  unusually  clever  tale,  that  by  its  sprightliness,  its  clear  delineations  of  character, 
and  its  vigorous  and  sparkling  style,  will  afford  entertainment  to  every  class  of  readers." — 
Book  T)-ade. 

"  The  '  Snow  Bird'  elicits  a  thrill  of  deep  and  exquisite  pleasure,  even  exceeding  that  which 
accompanied  'Linda,'  which  was  generally  admitted  to  be  the  best  story  ever  written  for  a 
newspaper.  That  was  certainly  high  praise,  but  '  Rena'  takes  precedence  even  of  its  pre 
decessor,  and,  in  both,  Mrs.  Lee  Hentz  has  achieved  a  triumph  of  no  ordinary  kind.  It  is 
not  that  old  associations  bias  our  judgment,  for  though  from  the  appearance,  years  since,  of 
the  famous  '  Mob  Cap,'  in  this  paper,  we  formed  an  exalted  opinion  of  the  womanly  and 
literary  excellence  of  the  writer,  our  feelings  have,  in  the  interim,  had  quite  sufficient  lei 
sure  to  cool:  yet,  after  the  lapse  of  years,  we  have  continued  to  maintain  the  same  literary 
devotion  to  this  best  of  our  female  writers.  The  two  last  productions  of  Mrs.  Lee  Hentz 
now  fully  confirm  our  previously  formed  opinion,  and  we  unhesitatingly  commend  'Rcna,' 
now  published  in  book  form  by  Parry  &  M'Millan.  Chestnut  and  Fourth  Streets,  as  a  story 
•which,  in  its  varied,  deep,  and  thrilling  interest,  has  no  superior." — American  Courier. 

"  It  will  be  found  to  be  the  best  story  which  Mrs.  Hentz  has  ever  given  to  the  public."— 
Saturday  Courier. 

AGUILAR,  GRACE.     ESSAYS  AND  MISCELLANIES. 

1  vol.  12mo.     Cloth, $0.75 

ALFRED  BUNN  IN  AMERICA. 

1  vol.  12rao.     Cloth, $0.75 

Paper, 0.50 

AYLMERE;  OR,  THE   BONDMAN  OF  KENT,  AND  OTHER 
POEMS. 

By  ROBERT  T.  CONRAD.     1  vol.  12mo.     Cloth,         ....  §1.00 

BINNS  (JOHN).     MEMOIRS  AND  RECOLLECTIONS. 

1  vol.  12mo.     Cloth, §1.25 

19 


TARRY  &  M'MILLAN'S  PUBLICATIONS. 


HEED'S  LECTURES  ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Lectures  on  English  Literature,  delivered  in  the  Chapel  Hall  of  the  Uni 
versity  of  Pennsylvania,  by  Professor  HENIIY  REED.  With  a  Portrait. 
Edited  by  his  brother,  WILLIAM  B.  REED.  1  vol.  12mo.  Cloth  $1.25 

"The  sound  and  discriminating  criticism  with  which  this  work  abounds,  will  render  it  an 
acknowledged  classic,  both  in  Europe  and  America.  It  is  the  most  important  add  i:  ion  to 
critical  literature  which  this  country  has  produced.  *  *  *  We  regard  it  as  of  inestimable 
Talue  as  aid  in  the  higher  walks  of  education.  Our  college  students,  and  the  young  ladies 
in  what  are  called  'finishing  schools,'  have  had,  hitherto,  no  reliable  guide  in  the  choice  of 
their  reading;  no  good  text-book  of  English  belles-lettres.  This  deficiency  is  now  supplied, 
and  we  especially  commend  the 'Lectures  ou  English  Literature' to  th«  notice  of  college 
professors,  and  the  teachers  of  all  the  higher  kinds  of  .schools.  *  *  *  So  important  an 
acquisition  should  by  no  means  be  neglected. — JVort/i  American. 

"  The  book  is  in  every  way  a  most  creditable  contribution  to  the  Library  of  Critical  Liter 
ature." — London  Leader. 

"These  lectures  bear  the  marks  of  ripe  scholarship,  and  an  accomplished  mind." — Presby 
terian. 

"We  have  examined  (his  volume  with  that  interest  with  which  one  would  open  a  box  of 
jewels,  and  examine,  one  by  one,  the  specimens  rich  and  rare.  And  when  you  add  to  this, 
the  sad  thought  that  the  one  who  gathered  such  a  collection  of  the  folid.  beautiful  and 
costly  in  literature,  went  down  with  the  three  hundred  who  disappeared  with  the  Arctic 
beneath  the  waves  of  the  Atlantic,  the  interest  increases  to  a  tearful  intensity,  and  you 
drink  in  the  words  of  wisdom  of  the  ocean-buried,  as  though  they  were  baptized  in  a  new 
inspiration." — American  Spectator. 

"The  Lectures  are  of  the  highest  order,  both  in  scholarship,  pound  sense,  and  graceful 
ness  of  style,  and  show  a  thorough  mastery  of  his  subject  that  only  a  familiar  acquaintance 
with  the  "original  sources  could  have  given.  'Ihere  is  also  a  moral  purity  and  a  Christian 
spirit  running  through  them  that  is  peculiarly  pleasing." —  Watchman  and  Observer. 

"One  of  the  greatest  merits  of  these  Lectures  is  their  entire  freedom  from  au  affectedly 
profound  philosophy  ;  from  an  appearance  of  that  German  transcendentalism  which  soars  so 
high  as  to  reach  beyond  all  real  comprehension,  and  which  penetrates  to  depths  that  are 
unfathomable,  that  analyses  until  nought  remains,  and  that  vanishes  from  all  intelligence 
in  an  entangled  forest  of  woodland.  A  genial  spirit  of  healthy  criticism  pervades  the  work, 
which  displays  the  purity  and  elvated  tone  of  the  lamented  author."—  Presbyterian  Banner. 

K*  *  *  *  If  anything  could  bring  consolation  to  the  friends  of  Professor  Keed  for  his 
untimely  loss,  it  is  that  he  left  his  MSS.  in  such  a  complete  and  scholar-like  preparation 
that  the  public  will  receive  them  as  a  national  benefit.  *  *  *  *  The  third  lecture  of  the 
volume  on  the  English  language,  is  in  itself  a  monument  of  the  varied  and  extensive 
learning  and  acquirements  of  the  lamented  author,  which  would  hand  down  his  name  to 
posterity  as  one  of  the  gifted  of  the  19th  century." — National  Intelligencer. 

"A  posthumous  work,  and  a  noble  monument  to  the  memory  of  the  distinguished  Pro 
fessor,  whose  loss  in  the  Arctic  created  such  an  intense  sorrow  in  the  city  of  his  birth, 
education,  and  active  life,  and  such  an  overwhelming  sense  of  calamity  wherever  his  just 
fame  had  spread." — Home  Journal. 

•'  These  lectures,  or  rather  essays,  are  of  surpassing  beauty  and  excellence.  We  know  not 
where  to  look  for  a  volume  so  admirably  adapted  to  the  wants  of  a  largo  class  of  young 
readers,  who  desire  to  direct  their  reading  intelligently  and  profitably." — Boston  Traveller. 

"This  is  one  of  the  most  thoughtful  and  earnest  course  of  lectures  we  have  ever  met 
with."— Boston  Transcript. 

"  They  evince  profound  knowledge  of  the  springs  of  English  literature,  and  are  imbued 
with  genial  sentiment,  fine  discrimination,  and  critical  acumen." — N.  Orleans  Bee. 

"  This  is  a  volume  written  with  strength,  edited  with  feeling,  and  published  with  taste. 
*  *  *  The  mild  and  thoughtful  countenance  of  the  author,  neatly  engraven  on  steel, 
will  be  found  a  valuable  memento  to  his  many  surviving  friends." — Newark  Daily  Ad 
vertiser. 

"  A  more  creditable  book,  of  the  same  bulk,  has  never  issued  from  the  American  press. 
And  if  it  does  not  receive  a  prompt  and  hearty  welcome  in  every  section  of  our  country, 
then,  we  confess,  we  shall  be  greatly  disappointed.  If  Talfourd,  or  fc'outhey,  or  some  olher 
Englishman  of  celebrity,  had  produced  a  work  of  such  genial  criticism  as  this,  it  would, 
very  justly,  have  added  to  his  fame.  It  wouid  speedily  he  caught  up  and  reprinted  here, 
and  thousands  of  copies  would,  in  a  few  weeks,  be  distributed  from  Maine  to  Louisiana. 
And  shall  the  prophet  be  less  regarded  by  his  own  countrymen?  We  trust  not.  We  cannot 
believe  that  a  book  which  we  feel  sure,  Irving,  and  Tieknor,  and  Dana,  and  Prcscott  will 
consider  as  worthy  to  stand  on  the  same  shelf  with  their  own  best  productions,  will  be 
coldly  neglected  by  any  who  profess  to  venerate  those  authors.'' — U.  Slates  Gazette. 

"These  Lectures  are  instructive,  eloquent,  and  even  brilliant;  they  are  the  productions 
of  a  powerful  and  refined  mind,  that  is  keenly  appreciative  both  of  the  severest  logic  and 
of  the  most  subtle  beauties  of  thought.  Every  reader  must  admire  them,  and  acknowledge 
that  he  has  been  profited  and  entertained  by  their  perusal/' — N.  York  Observer 

20 


PARRY  &  MCMILLAN'S  PUBLICATIONS. 


KEED.     (PROF.  HENRY.)    LECTURES  ON  ENGLISH  HIS 
TORY,    ILLUSTRATED    BY    SlIAKSPEARE's    HISTORICAL 

DRAMA. 

1  vol.  12mo.     Cloth, $1.25 

RUSSELL'S  (LADY  RACHEL)  LETTERS. 

The  Letters  of  Rachel,  Lady  Russell.  New  edition.  Containing  many 
Letters  never  before  published.  Complete  in  one  handsome  volume, 
12mo., $1.25 

"  Her  letters,  eloquent  in  the  potency  of  grief,  have  but  one  resource,  one  groat  engrossing 
topic,  the  judicial  murder  of  her  husband,  a  resource,  as  has  been  beautifully  observed, 
which  proved  the  strength  of  a  soul  sustained  by  all  the  fortitude  of  a  heroine,  and  chastened 
by  all  the  piety  of  a  saint.  To  these  melancholy  memorials  are  now  added  the  letters  of 
a  time  of  wedded  joy,  showing  how  deep  was  the  happiness  which  the  tyranny  of  a  voluptu 
ous  king  broke  into  and  destroyed." — Saturday  Courier. 

"  Although  a  century  and  a  half  has  elapsed  since  most  of  these  letters  were  written, 
they  are  still  models  of  a  noble,  pure-minded  and  devoted  wife's  epistolary  style.  Her  de 
votion,  indeed,  survived  her  husband's  death,  and  the  numerous  letters  given,  of  a  date 
subsequent  to  that  catastrophe,  are  full  of  reference  to  her  loss  and  of  vindications  of  hig 
character.  Written,  as  they  manifestly  were,  from  the  heart,  they  are  easy  and  unaffected, 
and  the  numerous  bits  of  gossip  and  references  to  celebrated  persons  of  the  period  make 
them  peculiarly  interesting." — Evening  Bulletin. 

"  That  sweet  saint,  that  sate  by 
Russell's  side — under  the  judgment  seat." 

"The  volume  now  before  us  is  one  of  the  handsomest  standard  volumes  of  the  season.  It 
contains  not  only  Hie  letters  that  appeared  in  the  first  edition,  but  many  others,  written 
during  the  period  of  her  happy  wedded  life,  and  that  famous  letter  to  her  children,  written 
on  the  anniversary  of  her  husband's  decease.  It  also  embraces  the  copious  notes  by  Miss 
Berry,  and  Mr.  Martin,  the  librarian  of  Woburn  Abbey." — Boston  Morning  Pout. 

"Lady  Rachel  Russell  was  the  wix'e  of  the  noble  and  unfortunate  Lord  William  Russell, 
ihe  compatriot  of  Algernon  Sidney,  and  other  illustrious  asserters  of  English  liberty  in  the 
seventeenth  century.  Her  letters  have  passed  through  numerous  editions  in.England,  and 
have  been  long  considered  models  of  epistolary  style.  They  are  full  of  tender  sentiment, 
and  relate  to  matters  of  the  most  touching  interest." — Commercial  Advertiser. 

"  The  Letters  of  Lady  Russell  contain  but  one  topic  arid  one  resource — that  topic  the  ju 
dicial  murder  of  her  husband— that  resource  the  strength  of  a  soul  sustained  by  all  the 
fortitude  of  a  heroine,  and  chastened  by  all  the  piety  of  a  saint." — Buffalo  Daily  Courier. 

"The  one  great  theme  which  these  letters  illustrate,  was  the  judicial  murder  of  Lord 
William  Russell  by  Charles  II.  They  reveal,  the  soul  of  a  heroine,  and  the  piety  of  one 
taught  in  the  school  of  Christ,  and  chastened  by  affliction  to  bear  with  pious  resignation  the 
severest  trials,  in  obedience  to  the  Divine  will.  These  letters  will  be  read  with  deep  in 
terest  in  connection  with  the  history  of  England  during  the  reign  of  Charles  II." — Christian 
Observer. 

"  Lady  Russell  was  a  woman  of  pure  spirit,  unaffected  piety,  warm  heart,  tried  virtues, 
and  excellent  understanding.  Her  letters  have  been  often  reprinted,  and  their  merits  have 
so  long  been  familiar  to  the  public  that  wo  need  only  call  attention  to  some  of  the  points  in 
which  this  new  and  beautiful  edition,  by  Messrs.  Parry  &  M'Millan,  surpasses  any  hitherto 
presented  to  the  world.1' — Banner  of  the  Grosa. 

'"The  appearance  of  a  volume  like  the  present,  is  among  the  rarest  of  benefactions  con- 
ferred  upon  the  public.  For  it  offers  to  our  view  one  of  those  noble  and  sublime  specimens 
of  our  common  humanity,  whoso  thoughts  and  deeds  'enrich  the  blood  of  the  world.'  As  a 
source  of  inspiration,  of  solace,  and  sustaining  energy,  it  were  impossible  to  estimate  the 
influence  exerted  by  a  character  like  Lady  Russell's,  on  all  coming  within  its  sphere. 
*  *  *  The  tragic  history  of  her  husband  is,  probably,  as  familiar  to  most,  as  her  own. 
That  most  blameless  of  statesmen.  Lord  Somers,  declared  Lord  Russell  to  have  been  '  mur 
dered''  by  the  infamous  pair,  Charles  II.  and  his  brother  James.  How  devotedly  attached 
were  the  wife  and  husband,  and  how  happy  in  this  attachment,  will  abundantly  appear 
from  this  volume  ;  as  will  also  the  admirable  conduct  of  Lady  Russell  during  the  trial  and 
last  days  of  her  lord,  and  the  forty  years  of  widowhood  that  followed." — Bizarre. 

"  This  is  a  very  beautiful  edition  of  the  celebrated  Letters  of  Lady  Russell,  and  its  value 
Is  enhanced  by  the  copious  foot  notes  which  explain  every  allusion  of  a  personal,  historical, 
political  or  private  nature  in  the  letters,  which  might  be  unintelligible  to  common  readers. 
The  libertine,  Charles  II.,  and  the  Popish  bigot  James  II.,  in  their  efforts  to  establish  arbi 
trary  power,  had  to  trample  out  the  lights  of  their  day,  that  shone  out  and  pointed  the  way 
to  liberty.  Amid  these  luminaries,  Sydney  and  Russell  shone  as  stars  of  the  first  magni 
tude,  and  both  were  murdered.  Still  their  light  continued  to  shine.  The  Revolution 
came,  and  Popery  was  defeated." — Presbyterian  Banner. 


PARRY  &  MCMILLAN'S  PUBLICATIONS. 


THE  NEW  PASTORAL. 

A  Poem.     By  THOS.  BUCHANAN  READ.     1  vol.  12mo.,  cloth,  ,     $1.00 


<>  Poetically  imagined  and  beautifully  expressed."— Baltimore  American. 
A  luxurious  specimen  of  typography." — Puritan  Recorder. 

"The  New  Pastoral  supplies  the  vacant  place  in  the  literature  of  America  which  Thomson 
and  Cowper  have  filled  in  that  of  England ;  and  we  feel  proud  of  our  you,'!  com  a™" 
when  we  say,  equally  well.  His  poem  is  purely  national— American  in  its  scope  in  it<  snirit 
in  its  ideas,  and  in  the  exquisite  pictures  of  rural  life  and  manners  which  constitute  its' 
chief  charm." — Reading  Democrat. 

'•  It  will  be  welcomed  as  the  first  truly  American  poem.  We  predict  for  it  an  immense 
circulation.  It  must  become  one  of  the  indispensable*  for  the  centre  table  in  America,  both 
in  the  palace  and  the  cottage."— Farm  Journal. 

"Mr.  Read  has  given  us  a  pastoral  poem  of  great  smoothness  of  versification,  naturalness 

f  thought  and  expression,  and  abounding  in  passages  of  great  beauty;  while  over  the  whole 

is  breathed  a  spirit  of  domestic  and  rustic  quietude  such  as  commends  it  to  the  rentier  svm- 

ratlue^o^the  soul.     It  deserves  to  take  its  place  among  the  best  of  our  fireside  poetry."— 

"  American  literature  gets,  in  The  New  Pastoral,  a  valuable  acquisition."— Boston  Trans 
t  *  *Ui  ?f  n8'  by  -hiS  W°rk>  achieved  for  himself  a  high  position  among  American' 
*  It  will  continue  a  'standard'  in  the  literature  of  his  country.  *  *  *  A  chas 
tened  imagination  has  decked  homely  scenes  with  all  the  charms  which  it  is  the  hi°-h  power 
of  poesy  only  to  do,  and  painted  American  rural  changes  with  a  life-like  fidelity  which  stamps 
them  for  ever  upon  the  page."— Morning  JTews. 

"  In  this  poem  Mr.  Read  has  surpassed  his  former  efforts,  and  produced  a  work  of  some 
length,  but  of  unflagging  interest.  Buchanan  Kead  is  a  true  poet— a  poet  who«e  cental 
scorns  the  trammelling  of  set  rules,  and  his  versification  invariably  appears  natural  and 
easy." — Boston  Evening  Gazette. 

"  The  lovers  of  sound  moral  sentiment  most  sweetly  expressed,  and  of  the  bright  portrai 
ture  of  nature  in  her  peaceful  scenes  and  moods,  will  find  in  this  volume  a  great  dial  to 
elevate,  to  interest  and  to  refine."— Natchez  Courier. 


"We  have  the  '  New  Pastoral,'  from  the  pen  of  Thomas  Buchanan  Read,  a  poet  whoro 
name  and  tame  bid  fair  to  become  household  words  in  America.     In  simple  and  Hute-like 

by  new  experience* 

rmer  productions  the  best 


. 

prolongations  of  melody  it  breathes  the  soul  of  a  new  people,  stirred 
dwelling  in  a  fresh,  young  world."—  Commercial  Register. 

'•TbeNortA  British  Review  pronounced  one  of  Mr.  Read's  former  proucons  te  best 
poem  that  had  appeared  from  an  American  author.  We  think  the  poet's  well-merited  repu 
tation  will  not  Suffer  from  the  present  work.  It  is  rich  in  the  elements  of  a  permanent  po 
pularity.  The  just  appreciation  of  nature;  the  beauty  of  description;  the  truthful  i.it-tur.-H 
of  simple,  rural  life;  the  delicacy  of  sentiment;  the  overflowing  of  a  gentle,  lovinc  heart 
and  the  sweetly  flowing  numbers,  cannot  fail  to  win  admirers,  and  gain  new  laurels  for  the 
bard.  Ihe  fact  that  it  is  also,  in  all  respects,  a  home  production,  thoroughly  American  in 
all  its  incidents  and  scenery,  gives  it  additional  charms."  —  Presbyterian. 

"  It  is  written  with  sincerity  and  feeling  :  there  are  descriptions  which  'have  great  truth  of 
detail,  and  the  poem  has  the  great  merit  of  a  subdued  and  natural  tone."—  Putnam's  Monthly. 

READ'S  ILLUSTRATED  POEMS. 

Poems,  by  T.  BUCHANAN  READ.     A  new  and  enlarged  edition.     Beautifully 
illustrated  with  designs  by  eminent  artists,  and  finely  engraved  on 
steel.     Cloth,  extra,  gilt  edge,          ......  $3.50 

Turkey  morocco,       .........      6.00 

Cloth,  without  illustrations,      .......      1.00 

"A  poet,  whose  fame,  both  at  home  and  abroad,  heightens  with  each  successive  produc. 
tion,  and  widens  as  the  knowledge  of  his  work  extends."  —  Wilii*  &  Morris  Ifotne.  Journal. 

"The  volume  we  have  now  the  pleasure  of  introducing  to  our  readers  abounds  with  de 
licately  pictured  images,  a  rich  luxuriant  fancy,  and  high-toned  sentiments,  marked  by  a 
touching  and  polished  simplicity.  *  *  *  All  is  mirrored  in  the  poet's  soul  like  the 
beautifully  brilliant  foliage  which  his  genius  pictures  on  the  bosom  of  the  quiet  stream  or 
sequestered  lake."  —  American  Courier. 

"  Mr.  Read  is  a  young  poet,  but  he  has  already  made  his  mark  in  the  literary  world.  The 
volume  before  us  is  a  good  specimen  of  his  style  and  poetic  power."  —  Public  Ledger. 

"  Strongly  imbued  with  the  poetic  genius.  '—Eliza  Cooled  Journal. 

"  Characterized  by  deep  feeling,  fanciful  imagery,  musical  expression,  and  faultless  versi 
fication."  —  London  Weekly  Paper. 

"  He  must  be  road  and  loved  as  long  as  American  literature  shall  endure."—  London 
Mercury 

22 


PARRY    &    M'MILLAN'S    PUBLICATIONS. 


THE  Six  DAYS.  OF  CREATION. 

By  W.  G.  RIIIND.  A  Series  of  affectionate  Letters  from  a  Father  to  his 
Children,  developing  the  progressive  advances  of  Creation  during  the 
Six  Days;  in  which  the  Natural  History  of  Animals,  Plants,  Minerals, 
Celestial  Objects,  etc.,  and  their  uses  and  relations  to  man,  are 
treated  with  particular  reference  to  the  illustration  of  Scriptural 
truth.  A  highly  interesting  juvenile  work.  From  the  last  London 
edition.  With  numerous  illustrations.  1  vol.  crown  8vo.,  $1.00 

Advertisement  to  the  American  Edition. 

"  The  first  American  edition  of  this  valuable  book  is  presented,  with  confidence,  to  the 
attention  of  all  who  are  interested  in  the  entertainment  and  Christian  instruction  of  youth. 
Its  tone  is  higher  than  that  which  characterizes  the  large  majority  of  works  prepared  for 
the  young. 

"  The  author  has  evidently  written  with  a  head  and  heart  full  of  one  great  thought — 
Salvation  through  Christ — whom  he  sees  in  all  His  works,  leading  his  readers  to  proper 
views  of  the  Mediator  in  all  the  relations  which  they  sustain  to  him. 

"  In  order  to  adapt  the  work  to  American  readers,  certain  modifications  and  emendations, 
together  with  a  few  additions,  were  deemed  necessary.  The  great  body  of  the  work,  how 
ever,  remains  entire. 

"  To  increase  the  value  and  interest  of  the  book,  a  large  number  of  wood-cuts,  illus 
trating  the  subjects  treated  of,  have  been  introduced.  The  steel  engravings,  representing 
the  six  days  of  creation,  have  been  copied  from  the  London  edition  with  great  fidelity. 

"  Hoping  the  work  may  afford  instruction  and  pleasure  to  the  class  of  readers  for  which 
it  is  designed,  the  editor  submits  it  to  the  Christian  public." 

MORNINGS  WITH  JESUS. 

A  series  of  Devotional  Readings  for  the  Closet  and  the  Family  for  every 
day  in  the  year,  carefully  prepared  from  notes  of  sermons  preached 
by  the  late  Rev.  Win.  Jay,  of  Bath.  1  vol.  crown  8vo.  Cloth,  gilt,  $1.25 

"  The  Rev.  Win.  Jay  was  the  clergyman  whom  John  Foster,  the  celebrated  essayist,  en 
titled  'the  prince  of  preachers.'  Judging  from  this  volume,  the  very  skeleton  of  his  dis 
course  has  more  energy  than  the  entire  body  of  some  men's  pulpit  oratory." — Com.  Adv. 

"  These  Readings  breathe  a  spirit  of  genuine  piety,  and  their  tone  is  catholic  and 
healthful." — Evening  Argus. 

"  Charmingly  adapted  to  private  and  family  reading.  The  Sunday  School  teacher  will 
find  it  an  invaluable  assistant." — City  Item. 

"  This  well  printed  volume  contains  numerous  expositions  of  the  sacred  scriptures, 
marked  by  the  originality  and  naturalness  of  manner,  the  perspicuity  and  impressiveness 
of  style,  the  evangelical  and  experimental  savour,  the  fullness  and  felicity  of  illustration, 
which  were  characteristic  of  the  discourses  of  their  pious  and  eloquent  author.  Clearness 
of  thought,  vigor  of  expression,  boldness  in  the  utterance  of  truth,  and  earnestness  both 
of  persuasion  and  denunciation,  are  traits  in  which  they  eminently  excel." — N.  Am. 

"  The  brief  meditations  composing  the  volume  are  pervaded  with  some  of  the  best 
characteristics  of  Mr.  Jay's  style,  and  will  not  disappoint  the  devout  reader." — Presbyterian. 

"  These  meditations  are.  like  everything  from  the  pen,  or  the  lips,  of  William  Jay,  prac 
tical,  evangelical,  apt,  and  often  strikingly  beautiful.  *  *  *  *  Full  of  pious  and  excellent 
thought,  and  well  fitted  to  be  read  in  connection  with  the  devotions  of  either  the  family  or 
the  closet." — Puritan  Recorder. 

"There  is  a  peculiar  freshness  about  these  pages  which  gives  them  a  charm  superior 
to  almost  any  other  of  the  productions  of  Mr.  Jay." — N.  Y.  Observer. 

"Christians,  who  know  the  worth  of  evangelical  truth,  will  value  it  as  a  volume  worthy 
of  beiii"  employed  to  aid  their  private  and  family  devotions;  and,  whether  beginning  the 
Christian  life,  or  more  advanced  in  the  experience  of  it,  will  read  it  with  profit  and  plea 
sure." — Church  Witness. 

"  One  great  charm  that  pervades  these  pages  is,  that  they  range  through  every  department 
of  human  experience,  and  show  that  the  Spirit  has  his  appropriate  teachings  for  every 
condition.  They  are  also  eminently  fitted  to  cherish  a  devotional  spirit.'"— -Dr.  Sprague. 

"  We  recommend  it  as  one  of  the  best  of  closet  companions."—  Colonial  Presbyterian. 

"This  a  rich  gathering  together  of  all  the  gems  of  beauty  to  be  found  in  the  writings  of 
the  J'.er.  William  Jay,  centering  around  the  Cross.  In  it  will  be  found  a  delightful  exer 
cise  for  each  morning  in  the  year,  and  together  forming  a  complete  exposition,  or  1UDJ»» 
truth." — American  Spectator. 


PARRY  &  M-MILLAN'S  PUBLICATIONS. 


COMMERCIAL  DICTIONARY. 

A  Dictionary  (Practical,  Theoretical,  and  Historical)  of  Commerce  and 
Commercial  Navigation.  B.y  J.  A.  M'CuLLOCH,  Esq.  Edited  by  HENRY 
VETHAKE,  LL.  D.,  Professor  in  the  University  of  Pennsylvania,  &c., 
&c.  With  an  Appendix,  containing  the  New  Tariff  of  1846,  together 
•with  the  Tariff  of  1842,  reduced  to  ad  valorem  rates  as  far  as  practica 
ble,  &c.,  &c.  In  two  volumes,  8vo.  Cloth,  ....  $7.50 

Sheep, 8.00 

Law  sheep,       .         . 8.50 


MORFIT   ON    SOAP  AND   CANDLES. 

Chemistry  applied  to  the  Manufacture  of  Soap  and  Candles.  A  thorough 
Exposition  of  the  Principles  and  Practice  of  the  Trade.  By  CAMPBELL 
MORFIT,  Practical  and  Analytical  Chemist.  Illustrated  with  170  En 
gravings  on  Wood.  One  volume,  8vo., $5.00 

Tins  work  is  based  upon  the  most  recent  discoveries  in  Science  and  improvements  in  Art, 
and  presents  a  thorough  exposition  of  the  principles  and  practice  of  the  trade  in  all  their 
minutiae.  The  experience  and  ability  of  the  author  have  enabled  him  to  produce  a  more 
complete  and  comprehensive  book  upon  the  subject  than  any  extant.  The  whole  arraiigo- 
ment  is  designed  with  a  view  to  the  scientific  enlightenment,  as  well  as  the  instruction  of 
the  manufacturer,  and  its  contents  are  such  as  to  render  it  not  only  a  standard  guide 
book  to  tho  operative,  but  also  an  authoritative  work  of  reference  lor  the  Chemist  and  the 
Student. 

RAILROAD  ACCIDENTS. 

Bailroad  Accidents,  and  the  Means  by  which  they  may  be  Prevented  by 
the  Use  of  the  Electro-Magnetic  Safety  Apparatus.  With  some  useful 
Hints  to  Railway  Travellers.  By  LAURENCE  TURNBULL,  M.D.,  and 
WILLIAM  C.  M'llEA.  One  volume,  .  .  .  .  .  .  $0.25 

"We  recommend  all  to  read  this  little  book.'' — Sunday  Mercury. 

"  We  commend  this  work  to  all  engaged  in  the  superintendence  of  railways." — Buffalo 
Courier. 


RANDOLPH  (JOHN),  OF  ROANOKE. 

John  Randolph,  of  Roanoke,  and  other  Sketches  of  Character,  including 
William  Wirt,  together  with  Tales  of  Real  Life.  By  F.  W.  THOMAS, 
author  of  "  Clinton  Bradshaw,"  &c.  In  one  handsome  volume,  $1.25 

"A  spirited  sketch  of  the  eccentric  Randolph,  with  various  amusing  anecdotes  illustrative 
of  his  mental  peculiarities.  The  other  sketches  of  character  are  well  and  amusingly  told." 
--Public  Ledger. 

"A  very  readable  series  of  papers." — Boston  Evening  Gazette. 

"  Mr.  Thomas  has  here  collected  a  few  daguerreotypes  of  eminent  men,  and  addod  to  them 
lively  sketches  of  pleasant  scenes,  the  whole  forming  a  most  agreeable  volume." — Sunday 
Mercury. 

"Interesting  and  agreeable." — Sunday  Dispatch. 

"  Mr.  Thomas  has  always  been  a  close  observer  of  men  and  manners,  and  in  those  pagos 
are  recorded,  in  a  pleasant,  engaging  style,  many  interesting  reminiscences  connected  with 
the  somewhat  chequered  life  of  the  author.''— Arttiur's  Home.  Journal. 

24 


PARRY  &  M'MILLAN'S  PUBLICATIONS. 


SCHWARZ'S  GEOGRAPHY  OF  PALESTINE. 

A  Descriptive  Geography  and  Brief  Historical  Sketch  of  Palestine.  By 
KABBI  JOSEPH  SCHWAKZ,  for  sixteen  years  a  resident  of  the  Holy 
Land.  Translated  by  ISAAC  LEESER.  Illustrated  with  numerous 
maps  and  engravings.  1  vol.  8vo.  Cloth,  .  .*  .  :  .  $2.50 

"The  volume  is  full  of  interest  and  information,  is  printed  in  the  most  beautiful  style, 
and  is  illustrated  with  numerous  maps  and  engravings.  A  more  detailed  and  comprehen 
sive  publication  on  the  Holy  Land,  as  relates  to  its  more  remote  antiquities,  has  never  been 
issued  from  the  American  pre,«s."— Inquirer  &  Courier. 

"It  is  the  result  of  wide  and  diligent  research,  and  that  it  possesses  an  unusually  largo 
amount  of  information  concerning  the  physical  history  of  that  land,  so  full  of  interest  and 
so  linked  with  the  most  sacred  associations  and  memories,  as  to  be  fitly  called  the  Holy 
Land.  The  work  is  beautifully  printed  on  fine  paper,  and  it  is  illustrated  by  maps  and  en 
gravings  on  stone." — Southern  Literary  Gazette. 

"This  is  a  very  learned  and  valuable  work,  deserving  the  consideration  which  it  will  be 
sure  to  obtain  from  savans  and  others  interested  in  the  study  of  the  Holy  Land;  and  the 
thanks  of  such  are  due  to  the  erudite  translator  for  the  labour  and  care  with  which  he  has 
prepared  it  for  American  readers." — North  American. 

"To  the  theological  student  it  must  especially  prove  of  incalculable  value,  and  wili 
doubtless  find  its  way  into  every  library  and  institution  of  learning.'' — American  Courier. 

"  This  is  a  work  of  vast  erudition  and  research,  and  we  commend  it  to  the  biblical  stu 
dent,  and  to  the  man  of  letters,  and  the  scholar,  as  perhaps  the  most  elaborate,  and  cer 
tainly  the  most  accurate  and  authentic  account  of  the  Holy  Land  ever  published.  Mr. 
Leeser,  the  translator,  has  executed  his  task  very  creditably,  and  has  taken  great  pains-to 
make  an  easy  and  intelligible  version  from  the  original  Hebrew  copy,  and  has  occasionally 
enriched  the  text  with  useful  explanatory  notes." — New  Orleans  Bee. 

SCOTT'S  (Sm  WALTER)  COMPLETE  WORKS. 

The  Works  of  Sir  Walter  Scott — including  the  Waverley  Novels— all  his 
Prose  Works — and  all  his  Poetical  AVorks — -with  his  Life,  by  J.  G. 
LOCKHART,  Esq.  Containing  the  ^vhole  of  the  contents  of  the  Edin 
burgh  edition  in  ninety-eight  volumes.  Complete  in  10  volumes,  8vo. 

Cloth, $10.00 

Sheep, 12.50 

Calf  backs, .        .   15.00 

SCOTT'S  PROSE  WORKS, 

Complete  in  5  vols.  8vo.,  to  match  the  edition  of  "Waverley  Novels,"  5  vols. 
Cloth,  gilt,  ....  ..,  -r  ....  $5.00 

SCOTT'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 

Sir  Walter  Scott's  Poetical  Works,  complete ;  including  the  Minstrelsy  of 
the  Scottish  Border.  1  vol.  Cloth, $1.00 

SCOTT'S  LIFE  OF  NAPOLEON. 

The  Life  of  Napoleon  Bonaparte.  By  Sir  WALTER  SCOTT.  Complete  in  1 
vol.  8vo  Cloth, $1.00 

SCOTT,  LIFE  OF. 

The  Life  of  Sir  Walter  Scott.     By  his  nephew,  JOHN  G.  LOCKHART,  Esq. 

Complete  in  1  vol.  8vo.     Cloth, $1.00 

3  25 


PARRY  A  M-MILLAN'S  PUBLICATIONS. 


SIGOURNEY'S  (MRS.)  POEMS. 

Illustrated  Poems.  By  Mrs.  L.  H.  SIGOURNEY.  With  designs  by  F.  0.  C. 
Darley,  engraved  by  distinguished  artists.  With  beautiful  Portrait 
of  the  Author,  by  Cheney,  after  Freeman.  Handsomely  bound  in 

cloth,  super  extra, §55.00 

urkey  morocco,  extra  gilt, 7.00 

LIST  OP  ILLUSTRATIONS.— The  Divided  Burden— A  Landscape— Oriska— The  Ancient  Family 
Clock — Eve — The  Scottish  Weaver — The  Indian  Summer — Erin's  Daughter — The  Western 
Emigrant — The  Aged  Pastor — The  Tomb — The  Drooping  Team — The  Beautiful  Maid. 

"  The  volume  is  a  most  luxurious  and  gorgeous  one,  reflecting  the  highest  credit  on  its 
'getters  up;'  and  we  know  of  nothing  from  the  American  press  which  would  form  a  more 
acceptable  gift-book,  or  a  richer  ornament  for  the  centre-table.  Of  the  Poems  themselves  it 
is  needless  to  speak/' — Y.  Blade. 

« In  the  arts  of  typography  the  volume  is  unsurpassed ;  the  illustrations  are  numerous 
and  beautiful,  and  the  binder's  skill  has  done  its  best.  Of  its  contents  we  will  not  speak 
flippantly,  nor  is  it  needful  that  we  should  say  anything.  The  name  of  Mrs.  Sigoumey  is 
familiar  in  every  cottage  in  America.  She  has,  we  think,  been  mor<>  generally  read  than 
any  poetess  in  the  country,  and  her  pure  fame  is  reverently  cherished  by  all." — N.  O. 
Picayune. 

"  It  is  illustrated  in  the  most  brilliant  manner,  and  is  throughout  a  gem-volume." — Pa. 
Inquirer. 

"  This  work,  so  beautifully  embellished,  and  elegantly  printed,  containing  the  select  writ- 
fhgs  of  one  of  the  most  celebrated  female  poets  of  America,  cannot  foil  to  be  received  with 
approbation." — Newburyport  Paper. 

"  The  illustrations  are  truly  beautiful,  and  are  exquisitely  engraved.  They  are  from  de 
signs  by  Darley,  who  has  risen  to  high  eminence  in  his  department  of  art.  The  entire  exe 
cution  of  the  volume  is  a  proud  evidence  of  growing  superiority  in  book-making  on  the  part 
of  American  publishers.  And  this  liberality  has  not  been  displayed  upon  a  work  unworthy 
ofit."-JV.  Y.  Com.  Ad-j. 

"  A  more  appropriate  gift-book  could  not  be  selected,  for,  apart  from  the  beauty  of  the 
typography  and  engravings,  which  elevate  this  work  above  the  costliest  annuals,  the  volume 
affords  the  most  complete  collection  of  Mrs.  Sigourney's  poems  yet  made.  When  we  reflect 
on  the  thousands  of  hearts,  all  over  this  wide  land,  on  which  the  poetry  of  Mrs.  Sigourney 
has  shed  its  holy  influence,  we  feel  assured  that  the  demand  for  this  book  will  far  transcend 
that  of  any  former  numbers  of  the  scries.  The  volume  reflects  great  credit  on  the  publishers. 
The  engravings  are  by  American  artists  after  American  drawings,  illustrating  American 
poems." — Peterson's  Magazine. 

"The  typography,  paper,  binding,  and  general  execution  of  the  book  are  in  the  most  re 
fined  style  of  art,  and  fully  equal  to  the  other  issues  which  we  have  mentioned.  This  elegant 
edition  comprises  selections  from  previous  volumes,  poems  that  have  appeared  only  in  a 
fugitive  form,  and  others  that  have  never  before  been  'indebted  to  the  ministry  of  the  press.' 
The  fourteen  illustrations  are  exquisite  in  conception  and  delineation.  We  are  at  a  loss  for 
•words  adequately  to  express  our  high  estimate  of  the  beauty  and  style  of  the  work  alto 
gether,  which  is  unsurpassed  by  anything  in  English  literature.  The  portrait  of  the  far 
Tourite  authoress,  by  Cheney,  is  earnest  and  life-like."— City  Item. 

SIGOURNEY'S  NEW  VOLUME  OF  POEMS. 

The  Western  Home,  and  other  Poems.     By  Mrs.  L.  II.  SIGOURNEY.     In 

one  handsome  volume,  12mo.     Cloth, $1.25 

Cloth,  extra, 1.50 

"This  volume  is  an  entirely  new  contribution,  which  its  highly  esteemed  author  makes 
to  the  national  literature,  of  which  she  has  so  long  been  a  distinguished  ornament.  The 
Western  Home,  which  constitutes  the  leading  poem  of  the  volume,  among  other  touching 
incidents,  pictures  in  glowing  verse  some  of  the  events  in  the  career  of  Burr,  and  his  un 
fortunate  victim,  Blennerhasset.  whose  history  and  unhappy  fate  live  among  the  brightest 
as  well  as  darkest  memories  of  the  mighty  West.'' — American  Courier. 

"  Mrs.  Sigourney  is,  perhaps,  the  most  popular  of  our  female  poets.  The  longest  poem  in 
this  volume  is  a  truthful  and  beautiful  panorama  of  the  early  seltlement  of  Ohio,  and  should 
be  read  in  every  '  Buckeye'  family.  We  commend  it  to  all  lovers  of  good  poetry." — Cincin 
nati  Christian  Herald. 

"  The  Western  Home  is  a  melodious  and  pleasant  tale.  The  other  poems  are  marked  by 
that  smoothness  of  versification,  and  occiisioiially  mournful  tone,  which  so  often  charac 
terize  *lr».  Sigouruoy's  poetry.  The  collection  will  be  gladly  welcomed  by  the  authors  ad- 

20 


PARRY  &  M'MILLAN'S  PUBLICATIONS. 


mirers ;  for  there  arc  few  of  our  female  poets  who  have  a  larger  circle  of  readers  than  Mrs. 
Sigourney." — Am.  Traveller. 

"  There  are  passages  of  true  poesy  in  the  Western  Home,  which  for  melody,  rhyme,  force  of 
expression,  and  regularity  of  metrical  arrangement,  are  nowhere  to  be  surpassed."— Boston 
Gazette. 

"More  brilliant  poetry,  doubtless,  can  be  found  in  all  the  popular  periodicals  of  the  day  ; 
but  the  genuine  household  flavor  of  Mrs.  Sigourney's  produetioDS,  and  their  natural  de 
lineation  of  universal  feelings,  will  long  recommend  them  to  popular  favour." — 2V  Y. 
Tribune. 

SIGOURNEY'S  SELECT  POEMS. 

Select  Poems,  by  Mrs.  L.  H.  SIGOURNEY.  With  illustrations.  New  edi 
tion.  In  one  handsome  volume,  12mo.  Cloth,  .  .  .  $1.25 
Cloth,  extra  gilt, .1.50 

"Mrs.  Sigourney  has  written  more  than  any  other  female  author  of  this  country,  and  for 
teaching  others  of  her  sex  holy  and  profitable  truths,  she  is  unsurpassed.'" — Cincinnati 
Chronicle. 

THE  VICTIM  or  EXCITEMENT,  THE  PARLOUR  SERPENT,  &c. 

By  Mrs.  CAROLINE  LEE  HENTZ.  1  vol.  Cloth,  ....  $0.75 
Paper  cover, 0.50 

THE  PLANTER'S  NORTHERN  BRIDE. 

A  Novel.  By  Mrs.  HENTZ.  2  vols.  12mo.  500  pages.  Cloth,  gilt,  .  $1.50 
Paper  cover, 1.00 

"Unquestionably  the  most  powerful  and  important,  if  not  the  most  charming  work  that 
has  yet  flowed  from  her  eloquent  pen.  *  *  The  genius  and  skill  of  the  fair  author  have 
devoloped  new  views  of  golden  argument,  and  flung  around  the  whole  such  a  halo  of  pathos, 
interest  and  beauty,  as  to  render  it  every  way  worthy  of  '  Linda,' '  Rena,'  '  Marcus  War- 
land,'  and  the  other  literary  gems  from  the  same  author." — American  Courier. 

"  One  of  the  most  delightful  and  remarkable  books  of  the  day." — Bmton  Traveller. 

"The  characters  are  finely  drawn,  and  well  sustained,  from  the  beginning  to  the  end  of 
the  work." — Boston  Morning  Post. 

"  We  commend  it  to  our  readers  in  the  strongest  words  of  praise  that  our  vocabulary  af 
fords."—^.  Y.  Mirror. 

"Written  with  remarkable  vigour,  and  contains  many  passages  of  real  eloquence.  We 
heartily  commend  it  to  general  perusal." — Newark  Daily  Eagle. 

"  As  a  high-toned  novel  it  possesses  throughout  a  most  touching  and  thrilling  interest 
*  *  *  far  above  the  level  of  the  novels  of  the  day.  All  are  delighted  who  read  it."— 
Courier. 


THE  ROSE  OF  THE  PARSONAGE. 

The  Rose  of  the  Parsonage,  an  Idyl  of  our  own  times,  translated  from  the 
German  of  ROBERT  GISEKE,  author  of  the  romance   "  Modern   Tit- 

anen."     Complete  in  1  vol.     Paper, $0.50 

Cloth, 0.75 

"  The  author  is  the  Bulwer  of  his  country,  and  this  is  one  of  his  most  admired  efforts." — 
American  Courier. 

"  This  is  a  charming  and  instructive  story — one  of  those  beautiful  efforts  that  enchant 
the  mind,  refreshing  and  strengthening  it.  The  translator  has  performed  his  task  skill 
fully  and  tastefully." — City  Item. 

"The  work  before  us  is  a  charming  tale.  It  is  simple  without  childishness,  animated 
without  extravagance.  The  translator  has  accomplished  his  task  with  much  ability."— 
£osto-n  Evening  Journal. 

"  Alike  simple  and  true  to  nature." — Saturday  Evening  Post. 

"The  story  evidences  a  vigorous  knowledge  of  the  passions  and  the  most  felicitous 
method  of  portraying  them." — Sunday  Dispatch. 


PARKY  &  M  MILLAN'S  PUBLICATIONS. 


THE  PODESTA'S  DAUGHTER. 

The  Podesta's  Daughter,  and  other  Miscellaneous  Poems.     By  GEORGE  IT. 
BOKER,  author  of  "  Calaynos,"  "Anne  Boleyn,"  &c.     Cloth,    .  $0.62 

"  It  always  gives  us  pleasure  to  welcome  a  new  volume  of  poems,  by  this  author,  to  our 
table.  He  is  oue  of  the  few  Americans  who  write  with  care.  He  is,  moreover,  a  townsman. 
And,  withal,  he  possesses  the  poetic  faculty  in  a  very  high  degree,  and  is  destined  to  go 
down  to  future  times  crowned  with  '  immortal  bays.'  Indeed,  in  many  respects,  Mr.  Loiter 
has  no  living  rival. 

"The  principal  poem  in  the  volume  before  us  is  'The  Podesta's  Daughter,' a  dramatic 
sketch  of  rare  merit.  In  compositions  of  this  character,  Mr.  Boker  excels ;  but  he  never 
published  anything  superior,  or.  in  some  particulars,  even  equal  to  this.  The  story  is  that 
of  two  lovers,  who,  from  being  children  together,  become  finally  passionately  attached.  But 
while  the  youth  is  heir  to  a  haughty  lineage,  the  maiden  is  the  humble  daughter  of  the  po 
desta,  a  disparity  of  rank  that  affords  the  aathor  material  out  of  which  to  weave  his  touch 
ing  tragedy.  The  delicate  skill  with  which  the  two  principal  characters  are  contrasted,  is 
worthy  of  all  praise. 

"  We  take  leave  of  this  volume  with  regret.  Its  elevated  tone,  its  delicacy  of  thought,  its 
chastened  style,  the  fire  of  some  passages,  the  sweetness  of  others,  and  last,  but  not  least, 
the  lofty  ideal  of  womanhood  which  prevails  throughout,  whether  in  the  dramatic  or  lyric 
parts,  have  sweetened,  for  a  brief  space,  the  exacting  toil  and  dry  details  of  a  journalist's  life. 

:  The  volume  is  very  neatly  issued,  and  does  credit  to  the  publishers.— Evening  Bulletin. 

'•The  Podesta's  Daughter  is  a  most  charming  production,  full  of  beauty  and  pathos, — one 
of  those  exquisitely  sweet  creations  which  while  they  reveal  the  highest  powers  of  the  artist 
in  their  construction,  at  :;he  same  time,  by  their  naturalness,  strike  and  gratify  every  reader. 
Other  poems  in  this  collection — the  Ivory  Carver,  for  example — exhibit  the  presence  of  the 
poetic  faculty  in  a  very  eminent  degree,  aud  all  show  a  cultivatiou  highly  creditable  to  the 
author."— North  American. 

"The  style  is  manly  and  vigorous,  and  the  incidents  arc  related  with  feeling." — N.  Y. 
Eve.  Post. 

';  As  a  dramatic  poet,  wo  believe  Mr.  Boker  has,  iu  this  country,  no  equal."— Knicker- 
bocker. 


TURNBULL   ON   THE    TELEGRAPH. 

The  Electro-Magnetic  Telegraph.  With  an  Historical  Account  of  its  Rise, 
Progress,  and  Present  Condition.  Also,  Practical  Suggestions  in  re 
gard  to  Insulation  and  Protection  from  the  Effects  of  Lightning.  To 
gether  with  an  Appendix  containing  several  important  Telegraphic 
Decisions  and  Laws.  By  LAURENCE  TURNBULL,  M.  D.,  Lecturer  on 
Technical  Chemistry  in  the  Franklin  Institute  of  Pennsylvania.  Second 
edition,  revised  and  improved.  Illustrated  by  numerous  engravings. 
1  vol. $2.00 

"  We  have  a  great  number  of  works  on  the  Telegraph  and  Electrical  Apparatus,  but  this 
is  the  best  and  ablest  of  them  all.  Those  who  wish  to  be  posted  up  on  telegraphs  must  con 
sult  this  book." — Scientific  American. 

"  The  work  is  the  fullest  and  most  complete  on  the  subject  yet  published  in  this  country." 
—American  Telegraph  Mtflazine. 

"The  whole  history  of  the  greatest  wonder  of  recent  times  is  presented  in  this  handsome 
volume  in  a  most  complete  and  admirable  manner.  No  Telegraphic  operator,  or  person  in 
terested  in  the  Telegraph  business,  should  bo  without  this  work." — Cummin gs"  Eef..  Bulletin. 

'•The  value  of  a  book  of  this  kind  consists  necessarily  in  the  care  and  industry  used  in 
collating  the  various  descripMons  and  the  scientific  judgment  exhibited  in  the  opinions  ex 
pressed  as  to  their  relative  merits.  There  is,  we  believe,  no  work  in  the  English  language 
which  has  any  just  claims  to  be  compared  with  the  present  one,  either  in  its  scope  or  iu  the 
care  and  impartiality  shown  in  its  preparation." — Journal  of  the  Franklin  Institute. 

"This  if  confessed,  by  eminent  scientific  men,  to  be  the"  most  complete  and  satisfactory 
work  on  Electric  Telegraphs  published  in  this  country.  It  is  written  in  a  plain  perspicuous 
style,  and  poss'-ss«>s  much  i nil-rent,  not  only  to  the  Telegraphic  operator,  but  to  the  general 
reader."— JV.  Y.  Christum  Review. 


PARRY  &  MCMILLAN'S  PUBLICATIONS. 


WANDERINGS  IN  CORSICA. 

Corsica:  Picturesque,  Historical  and  Social:  -with  a  Sketch  of  the  early 
life  of  Napoleon,  and  an  account  of  the  Bonaparte,  Paoli,  Pozzo  di 
Borgo,  and  other  principal  families.  Suggested  by  a  Tour  in  the 
Island  in  1852.  Translated  from  the  German  of  Ferdinand  Grego- 
rovius,  by  EDWARD  JOY  MORRIS.  1  vol.  crown  8vo.,  with  Portrait  of 
Paoli  on  steel.  Cloth, $1.50 

"  Here  is  a  book  which,  if  any  one  can  he  found  to  translate  it  without  allowing  the  bloom 
to  escape  in  the  process,  cannot  fail  to  be  as  popular  among  English  readers  as  the  best 
writings  of  Washington  Irving.  The  four  essentials  of  a  beautiful  style — delicacy  of 
perception,  soundness  of  understanding,  a  just  sensibility,  and  that  peculiar  power  which 
gives  expression  to  these  in  the  choice  and  arrangement  of  words— are  all  here,  in  an 
equally  tempered  manner,  while  we  are  nowhere  offended  by  an  indelicate  thought,  a 
coarse  expression,  or  an  ill-defined,  or  an  ill-balanced  emotion." —  Westminster  Review. 

"  Mr.  Gregorovius  is  a  diligent  and  enthusiastic  collector  of  the  traditions  of  a  heroic  race, 
a  man  of  strong  feeling  for  the  great  and  beautiful,  and  an  able  historian.  His  prelimi 
nary  sketch  of  the  history  of  Corsica,  we  consider  a  production  of  the  highest  order."— 
London  Quarterly. 

"  If  we  were  to  say  the  book  fully  realized  the  expectations  excited  by  its  title,  and  that 
it  is  as  interesting  as  a  novel,  we  should  convey  but  a  feeble  idea  of  its  intrinsic  merits. 
To  compare  it  with  the  most  exciting,  and  'popular,'  and  'successful'  novel  of  this  novel 
producing  age,  would  be  faint  praise  perhaps.  It  would  certainly  be  derogatory  to  its 
literary  claims.  Without  assuming  the  staid  dignity  of  history,  it  is  full  of  internal  evi 
dence  of  simple,  impartial,  and  instructive  truth.  It  brings  to  mind  the  graphic  and 
beautiful  sketches  of  Irving,  and  charms  by  its  easy,  unassuming,  and  chaste  style.  It  is 
made  up  of  valuable  and  not  wholly  disconnected  contributions  to  the  political,  geogra 
phical,  and  social  history  of  one  of  the  most  romantic  and  remarkable,  and  at  the  same 
time  one  of  the  least  known  countries  of  Europe." — Boston  Traveller. 

"  Rarely  have  we  been  so  much  interested  in  a  book  of  fact  as  contradistinguished  from 
romance.  There  is  an  infinite  mass  of  information  in  the  volume,  and  Mr.  Morris,  for 
giving  us  an  excellent  and  faithful  translation  of  it,  deserves  the  thanks  of  the  reading 
world."-  Bulletin. 

"As  far  as  we  can  perceive,  this  work  has  been  well  translated  by  Mr.  Morris.  It  is 
adorned  by  a  fine  portrait  of  Paoli,  and  in  fact  it  is  one  of  the  handsomest  issues  of  the 
season,  in  every  particular  of  book-making.  'Corsica,  picturesque,  historical,  and  social,' 
is  indeed,  interestingly  discussed,  and  we  can  refer  our  friends  to  no  single  work  which  will 
compare  with  this  under  notice,  as  a  complete  picture  of  the  past  and  present  of  one  of  the 
most  peculiar  and  fascinating  portions  of  the  globe." — Boston  Post. 

"  This  admirable  work  has  excited  much  attention  in  Germany  and  England,  from  the 
new  light  it  throws  on  the  political  history,  national  features,  and  social  condition  of  one  of 
the  least  known  and  most  interesting  countries  of  Europe.  From  exuberant  materials  the 
author  has  furnished  a  most  thrilling  work,  every  page  of  which  rivets  the  mind  as  with  a 
wizard's  spell.  The  translation  is  easy  and  flowing,  and  will  add  to  the  already  high  char 
acter  of  Mr.  Morris  as  a  student  and  scholar." — National  Argus. 

"The  book  cannot  fail  to  attract  general  attention,  both  from  its  intrinsic  merits,  and  the 
reputation  of  its  author.  It  is  beautifully  got  up,  and  embellished  with  a  fine  portrait." — 
Daily  Reporter. 

"  This  is  a  valuable  contribution  to  literature.  A  work  upon  the  social  customs  of 
Corsica,  the  island  where  Napoleon  passed  his  boyhood,  has  long  been  needed.  There  are 
few  sources  from  which  information  can  be  obtained  in  regard  to  it." — Sunday  Mercury. 

"  The  historical  sketch  of  Corsica,  in  its  thrilling  recitations  of  the  actions  of  Sampiero 
and  other  of  the  Corsican  heroes,  and  of  the  indomitable  prowesn  displayed  in  the  war  of 
independence  with  Genoa,  seems  more  like  a  romance  of  Paladin  exploits,  than  a  record  of 
actual  events.  The  wild,  demi-savage  customs  of  the  Corsicans — the  terrible  practice  of 
revenge,  and  the  curious  life  of  the  mountain  bandits — the  funeral  ceremonies  of  the  Ho 
meric  ages  yet  existing  in  their  primitive  vigor,  with  the  attendant  death  wails,  and  the 
life  of  the  shepherds,  as  well  as  the  bold  and  picturesque  scenery  of  this  wonderful  island, 
are  described  with  great  vigor  and  effect.  Charming  traditional  stories  are  also  profusely 
scattered  through  the  volume.  One  of  the  most  interesting  features  of  the  book,  is  the 
new  and  curious  revelations  given  of  the  J?ouaparte  family,  and  particularly  of  the  boyhood 
and  early  traits  of  Napoleon  himself.  Full  justice  is  also  done  the  Faolis  and  other  great 
men  Corsica  has  produced.  Altogether,  this  is  one  of  the  most  delightful,  original,  and 
entertaining  books  we  have  ever  read.  It  is  handsomely  got  up,  and  is  illustrated  by  a 
well-executed  portrait  of  the  Corsican  legislator  Pasquale  Paoli,  whose  benign  and  dig 
nified  features  bear  a  resemblance  to  the  noble  countenance  of  Washington." — Inquirer 
and  Courier. 

29 


PARRY  &  M'MILLAN'S  PUBLICATIONS. 


WAYEBLEY  NOVELS. 

A  new  and  revised  edition,  the  whole  complete  in  5  volumes,  royal  8vo. 

Embossed  cloth, $5.00 

Scarlet  cloth,  richly  gilt, 6.00 

Library  sheep, 6.00 

Morocco  backs, 7.00 

Cloth  backs, 3.50 

Paper  covers, 2.50 

Large  paper,  fine  edition,  green  cloth,  richly  gilt,     .         .         .7.50 


WILD  JACK;  OR,  THE  STOLEN  CHILD,  &c. 

By  Mrs.  CAROLINE  LEE  HENTZ.     1  vol.     Cloth,        .         .         .         .  $0.75 
Paper  covers, .0.50 

'•'  Wild  Jade  is  a  stirring  story,  but  we  do  not  tliink  it  equal  to  several  others  in  the 
•volume.  Percy:  or,  the  Banished  Son,  seems  to  us  the  chef  d'osuvre  of  the  collection.  It 
appeals  to  all  the  nobler  sentiments  of  humanity,  is  full  of  action  and  healthy  excitement, 
and  sett)  forth  the  best  of  morals." — Charleston  Weekly  News. 


WASHINGTON'S  ADMINISTRATION. 

Memoirs  of  the  Administrations  of  Washington  and  John  Adams.  Edited 
from  the  papers  of  OLIVER  WOLCOTT,  Secretary  of  the  Treasury.  By 
GEORGE  GIBBS.  In  2  vols.  8vo.  Illustrated  by  a  Portrait.  .  $5.00 

"To  him  who  would  learn  the  true  history  of  our  Federal  Government,  the  work  re 
cently  published  is  of  infinite  value.  The  materials  of  these  volumes  consist  chiefly  of  let 
ters  writteu  in  the  ordinary  course  of  business  or  friendship,  by  the  men  who  were  most 
active  in  forming  our  present  constitution,  and  organizing  the  government." 

'•The  object  of  the  publication  is  to  shed  light  upon  a  period  of  our  internal  history  which 
has  hitherto  been  involved  in  considerable  darkness;  and  that  the  object  of  the  work  has 
been  attained,  every  reader  of  the  work  will  be  satisfied." 

"  Books  of  this  character  best  illustrate  the  history  of  the  country.  The  men  who  have 
acted  important  parts  are  made  to  speak  for  themselves,  and  appear  without  any  aid  from 
the  partiality  of  friends,  or  any  injury  from  the  detraction  of  enemies." — Providence  Jour. 

"The  materials  of  which  these  volumes  are  composed  are  of  great  value.  They  consist  of 
correspondence,  now  first  given  to  the  world,  of  Washington,  the  elder  Adams,  Ames,  John 
Marshall,  Kufus  King,  Timothy  Pickering,  Wolcott,  &c.  There  are  thirty-seven  original 
letters  from  Alexander  Hamilton,  many  of  them  of  the  highest  interest ;  one  in  which  tho 
writer  with  keen  sagacity  and  all  the  splendour  of  his  eloquence,  gives  a  character  of  Mr. 
Burr  upon  which  his  own  fate  was  destined  to  put  the  seal  of  truth,  is  read  now  with 
singular  emotions.  Mr.  Gibbshas  performed  his  task  extremely  well.  His  preface  is  mo 
dest  and  dignified.  The  passages  of  narrative  by  which  the  letters  are  connected  are  ac 
curate,  judicious  and  agreeable  ;  they  illustrate,  and  do  not  overlay  the  principal  material 
of  the  work." — North  Americun. 

"Here  we  meet,  illustrated  in  something  like  forty  important  letters,  the  blazing  intel 
ligence,  the  practical  sagacity,  the  heroic  generosity,  the  various  genius,  which  have  made 
Hamilton  the  name  of  statesmanship  and  greatness,  rather  than  the  name  of  a  man.  Hero 
we  have  the  piercing  judgment  of  John  Marshall,  unsusceptible  of  error,  whose  capacity  to 
sec  the  truth  was  equalled  only  by  his  power  of  compelling  others  to  receive  it;  in  the  light 
of  whose  logic  opinions  appeared  to  assume  the  nature  of  facts,  and  truth  acquires  the  pal- 
pableness  of  a  material  reality;  the  bluntness,  force  and  probity  of  Pickering;  the  sterling 
excellencies  of  Wolcott  himself,  who  had  no  artifices  and  no  concealments,  because  his 
strength  was  too  great  to  require  them,  and  his  purposes  too  pure  to  admit  them;  and 
sounding  as  an  understrain  through  the  whole,  the  prophet  tones  of  Ames." — U.  &  Gazette. 

"  An  important  and  valuable  addition  to  the  historical  lore  of  the  country." — N.  Y.  Eve, 
Oazette. 

"  We  look  upon  these  memoirs  as  an  exceedingly  valuable  contribution  to  our  national 
records." — N.  Y.  Com.  Advertiser. 

30 


PARRY  &  M'MILLAN'S  PUBLICATIONS. 


NAPOLEON  AT  ELBA. 

The  Island  Empire;  or  the  Scenes  of  the  First  Exile  of  Napoleon  I.  To 
gether  with  a  Narrative  of  his  residence  on  the  Island  of  Elba,  taken 
from  local  information,  the  papers  of  the  British  Resident,  and 
other  authentic  sources.  By  the  author  of  "Blondelle."  1  vol.  12mo. 
Cloth, $1.00 

"  A  monograph  which  we  have  read  with  deep  interest.  *  *  *  Many  of  his  (Napoleon's) 
remarks  read  like  prophecies,  and  have  an  interest  as  pressing  in  our  time  as  when  they 
were  uttered." — London  Athenceum. 

••  A  fresh  subject,  treated  freshly  without  being  overdone.  It  has  interest  in  reference  to 
present  affairs." — London  Spectator. 

••  There  is  in  this  book  that  smartness  and  originality,  in  tone  and  style,  which  never  fail 
to  please.  The  same  warmth  of  feeling  that  actuates  our  author  in  treating  his  main  sub 
ject,  accompanies  him  also  in  his  rambles  over  the  Island ;  every  building,  field,  hill,  rock, 
or  nook,  in  any  way  connected  with  the  name  or  fortunes  of  Napoleon,  he  investigates  with 
a  gusto  and  graphic  force  which  inspire  us  with  as  lively  an  interest  in  Elba,  for  its  moral 
associations  as  for  its  natural  beauties,  and  the  character  and  customs  of  its  inhabitants. 
As  regards  these  several  features,  we  have  a  series  of  sketches  equally  picturesque  and  in 
structive." — New  Quarterly  Review. 


HEROIC  WOMEN  OF  THE  WEST,  WITH  ACCOUNTS  OF 

THEIR  MANY  WONDERFUL  ADVENTURES  AND  ESCAPES. 
One  vol.  12mo.,  Illustrated.     Cloth,  gilt,      *  .        .    .     .    '     .     .    .  $1.25 


INDECISION.     A  TALE  OF  THE  FAR  WEST,,  AND  OTHER 
POEMS. 

By  J.  K.  MITCHELL,  M.  D.     1  vol.  18mo.     Cloth,  .         .         .  $1.00 

MINISTRY  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL. 

By  H.  J.  SLACK.     18mo.     Cloth, $0.50 

Extra,  gilt  edges, 0.75 

TAM'S  FORTNIGHT  RAMBLE,  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

By  THOMAS  MACKELLAR.     1  vol.  12mo., $0.75 

OLD  ENGLAND  AND  NEW  ENGLAND,  IN  A  SERIES  OF 
VIEWS  TAKEN  ON  THE  SPOT. 

By  ALFRED  BUNN.     1  vol.  12mo.     Cloth,        .        .        .        .        .  $0.75 
Paper, 0.50 

THE  HONEY  BEE  :  ITS  NATURAL  HISTORY,  PHYSIOLOGY 
AND  MANAGEMENT. 

By  EDWARD  BEVAN.    With  35  Engravings  on  Wood.    1  vol.   Paper,     $0.31 

POEMS. 

By  LOUISA  S.  McCoRD.     1  vol.  12mo.     Cloth,        .        .        .  $0.75 

31 


Any  Book  in  this  Catalogue  will  be  sent  by  mail  (prepaid)  on 
receipt  of  the  price  appended. 


PARRY  &  M'MILLAN, 

(SUCCESSORS  TO  A.  HART,  LATE  CAREY  &  HART,) 

(Smrnl 

South-East  Corner  of  Chestnut  and  Fourth  Streets, 
PHILADELPHIA. 


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